IN    BABEL' 

STORIES    OF    CHICAGO 
BY    GEORGE    ADE 


ALDI 


NEW    YORK 
McCLURE,    PHILLIPS 

1903 


CO 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
MoCLURE,  PHILLIPS  A  CO. 


Published,  September,  1903 


1 


fit 

ir 


PREFACE 


These  little  stories  and  sketches  have  been  rewritten 
from  certain  daily  contributions  to  the  Chicago 
Record,  now  the  Chicago  Record-Herald.  They 
have  been  assembled  into  this  volume  in  the  faint  hope 
that  they  may  serve  as  an  antidote  for  the  slang 
which  has  been  administered  to  the  public  in  such 
frequent  doses  of  late.  They  are  supposed  to  deal, 
more  or  less  truthfully,  with  every-day  life  in 
Chicago. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


434869 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"THE  DIP" 1 

AND  JOSEPHINE  FORGAVE 15 

THE  BARCLAY  LAWN  PARTY 27 

WHY  "  GONDOLA  "  WAS  PUT  AWAY 37 

EFFIE  WHITTLESY 47 

THE  FEUD 61 

"TALL-STOY" 67 

THE  OTHER  GIRL 75 

THE  JUDGE'S  SON 85 

HOUSE  IN  MERCEDES  STREET 95 

HlCKEY  BOY  AND  THE  GRIP    .     .    *.     .     .     .     .105 

THE  SET  OF  POE 113 

DUBLEY,  '89 123 

THE  MONEY  PRESENT 137 

BEST  OF  THE  FARLEYS 145 

MR.  WIMBERLEY'S  TROUSERS    .     .     .     .     .     .     .155 

THE  FORMER  KATHRYN 165 

CUPID  IN  BUTTONS 171 

[v] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BUELL  CHERRY 183 

AN  INCIDENT  IN  THE  "PANSY"" 193 

Miss  TYNDALL'S  PICTURE 203 

MR.  PAYSON'S  SATIRICAL  CHRISTMAS       .     .     .     .213 

LIFE  INSURANCE 227 

OUR  PRIVATE  ROMANCE 237 

MR.  LINDSAY  ON  "SAN  JKWAN" 247 

THE  STENOGRAPHIC  PROPOSAL 255 

THE  RELATIVES'  CLUB 267 

GEORGE'S  RETURN 275 

HARRY  AND  ETHEL 287 

"BUCK"  AND  GERTIE 297 

THE  SCAPEGOAT 307 

WILLIE  CURTIN — A  MAN 315 

OPENING  OF  NAVIGATION 327 

No  CLARENCE 337 

WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 349 


[vil 


"THE    DIP 


"THE    DIP" 

The  place  known  as  "Larry's  Lunch"  is  a  narrow  hole 
in  the  wall  between  two  frame  houses.  The  buildings 
are  so  old  and  weak  that  they  lean  toward  each  other 
in  their  decrepitude.  The  street  in  front  is  muddy 
and  cobbled.  Street-lamps  are  far  apart.  They 
burn  low,  as  if  this  neglected  air  had  not  enough 
oxygen  to  feed  a  cheerful  flame.  The  sunken  and 
rotting  sidewalk  of  wood  is  slippery  to  the  foot. 
A  kerosene  lamp  propped  in  the  front  window  of 
"Larry's  Lunch"  showed  as  a  mere  smudge  of  light 
behind  the  dirty  panes. 

John  Franzen  lifted  the  loose  iron  latch,  and  there 
came  into  his  nostrils,  like  the  breathing  from  a  foul 
creature,  the  smell  of  poverty,  frying  grease,  and  bad 
tobacco. 

But  he  had  to  eat.  He  had  not  eaten  for  twenty- 
four  hours.  A  Jew  dealing  in  pawns  and  junk  had 
given  him  ten  cents  for  his  pocket-knife — the  last  of 
his  convertible  property. 

At  "Larry's  Lunch"  he  could  get  meat,  bread,  po 
tatoes,  and  coffee  for  ten  cents.  He  ordered  and  then 

[3] 


.  :  :.;.-.-.  »:."THE-.D  IP" 

leaned  forward  on  the  rough  table,  with  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  while  the  meat  sizzled  in  the  pan  and  a 
rancid  smoke  filled  the  low  room. 

His  uncle  had  been  right. 

"You  take  your  share  of  the  money  and  go  to 
Chicago  and  you'll  be  broke  inside  of  six  months," 
the  uncle  had  said.  "You're  a  fool  with  money.  Any 
man's  a  fool  with  money  unless  it's  money  he's  made 
himself." 

"I  know  my  business,"  he  had  said  to  his  uncle. 

After  which  they  parted,  with  the  understanding 
that  if  John  Franzen  ever  needed  money  he  was  not 
to  come  to  his  uncle  for  it. 

Yes,  his  uncle  had  been  right.  A  fool  with  his 
money !  Diamonds  that  he  had  worn  clumsily — 
showy  betting  at  the  race-tracks — loans  to  new-made 
friends — experiments  at  the  bucket-shops.  Six 
months  of  it  and  he  had  sold  his  pocket-knife  that  he 
might  eat  a  shred  of  carrion  in  this  hole  and  be  alive 
for  another  day. 

Oh,  what  a  triumph  for  those  who  had  warned  him 
— those  who  had  told  him  he  was  a  fool  with  money ! 
What  rejoicing  there  would  be  at  home  when  they 
heard  of  it — and  they  would  hear  it,  because  in  small 
towns  they  hear  everything.  They  would  be  glad,  to 
be  sure — all  except  Aunt  Ella. 

[4] 


"THE   DIP" 

"She  was  the  only  one  who  ever  understood  me,*'  he 
said,  half  aloud,  grinding  his  fists  on  the  table. 
"But  I  don't  care." 

Then,  because  he  didn't  care,  he  let  his  head  fall 
into  the  angle  of  his  right  arm,  and  there  in  the  dark 
ness  that  he  made  for  himself,  he  cried.  He  was 
only  twenty-two. 

The  front  door  clicked  and  slammed.  Larry,  who 
was  both  cook  and  waiter  (in  a  red  flannel  shirt 
chopped  off  at  the  elbows),  brought  the  meat  and 
coffee.  John  Franzen  pulled  himself  up  from  the 
table.  Before  him,  talking  to  Larry,  stood  a  very 
small  young  man,  with  square  shoulders,  a  pointed 
nose,  shifty  eyes  and  mouth  twitching  into  a  smile 
whenever  he  spoke.  This  young  man  wore  a  plaid 
cap,  with  a  short  peak.  His  coat  collar  was  turned 
up,  and  within  it  was  a  blue  and  white  handkerchief 
knotted  closely  about  his  neck. 

"If  he  comes  around  here,  you  tell  him  I  want  to  see 
him,"  this  young  man  was  saying  to  Larry. 

"All  right,  Eddie." 

At  that  moment  the  young  man  named  Eddie 
looked  down  and  saw  John  Franzen's  face,  streaked 
with  tears.  Possibly  he  was  surprised  to  know  that 
a  man  may  weep. 

[5] 


"THE    DIP" 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Don't  the  steak 
suit  you?" 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,"  said  Franzen,  trying 
to  laugh.  "I'm  hoeing  a  pretty  hard  row  just  at 
present.  I  s'pose  I  was  kind  o'  weak  from  not  eating 
or  I  wouldn't  have —  "  and  he  stopped. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Eddie,  speak 
ing  to  the  proprietor,  who  had  gone  back  to  his  stove. 

Larry  nodded  wisely  and  smiled.  Eddie  stood  and 
watched  Franzen  tear  at  the  fibrous  strip  of  meat  and 
take  long  gulps  of  the  hot  coffee. 

"First  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Franzen,  who  was  divided  between 
shame  and  hunger. 

"How  did  you  get  the  price?" 

"I  sold  my  knife." 

"What  if  you  didn't  have  any  knife?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"How  long  you  been  in  town?" 

"About  six  months." 

"Nice  town,  ain't  it?" 

Franzen  shook  his  head  dubiously  and  made  an  ef 
fort  to  smile. 

Eddie  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  aloud. 

"This  is  one  o'  the  cases,"  he  said,  calling  to  Larry. 
"Is  it  any  wonder  they  start  out  ?"  Then  to  Franzen, 

[6] 


"THE    DIP'" 

"Why  didn't  you  stop  some  fellow  and  ask  him  to  let 
you  have  a  nickel  or  two?" 

"Because  I'm  not  a  beggar." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk !"  exclaimed  Eddie,  and  he 
laughed  again.  Franzen  looked  up  at  him,  puzzled. 

"Where  you  goin'  to-night?" 

"I  don't  know.  There  are  two  or  three  places  where 
I'm  going  to  call  again  to-morrow  to  see  about  a 
job." 

"The  job  you  stand  a  chance  of  gettin'  to-morrow 
or  next  week  ain't  very  much  help  to  you  to-night,  is 
it?"  asked  Eddie. 

"This  is  a  new  experience  for  me,"  said  Franzen. 
"I've  heard  about  fellows  being  up  against  it  this 
way,  but  I  never  thought  I'd  come  to  it." 

"You  don't  care  much  for  it  as  far  as  you've  got, 
do  you?" 

Franzen  looked  up  again,  undecided  whether  Ed 
die  was  sympathising  with  him  or  taunting  him. 

"I  wish  I  had  the  money  I  had  six  months  ago," 
he  said  bitterly.  "They  wouldn't  take  it  away  from 
me  this  time." 

Eddie  leaned  across  the  table  and  gave  Franzen 
a  hard  but  playful  blow  in  the  ribs. 

"You're  all  right,"  he  said,  laughing  again.  "I'll 
just  stake  you  to  a  bed  to-night." 

m 


'  THE    DIP" 

When  Franzcn  bad  eaten  the  last  crumb  of  bread 
and  drained  the  last  drop  of  coffee  lie  followed  Eddie 
across  the  street  and  up  a  steep  stairway  into  a  room 
that  held  a  bed,  a  table,  a  chair,  and  a  zinc-bound 
trunk.  The  bed-clothes  were  in  confusion. 

"Roll  in  there  next  to  the  wall  an'  dream  you've  got 
all  the  cash  you  brought  up  from  the  country,"  com 
manded  Eddie,  who  had  squatted  on  the  trunk,  giv 
ing  the  only  chair  to  his  guest.  K ran/en  slept  with 
Eddie  that  night  and  went  to  breakfast  with  him  next 
morning,  at  a  fifteen-cent  place. 

"If  you  don't  strike  anything  to-day,  come  around 
to-night,"  said  Eddie. 

Franzen  did  come  hack  that  night  to  get  food  and 
a  resting-place.  They  were  on  their  way  to  the 
room  from  the  restaurant  when  two  big  men  stood 
before  them  at  a  corner.  One  grabbed  Eddie  and  tin- 
other  held  Fran/en  by  the  wrist  before  he  had  time 
to  dodge  or  retreat. 

"Hello,  Mullen,"  said  Eddie  to  the  man  who  was 
holding  him. 

"Hello,  Eddie,"  in  a  growling  voice.  "You  can't 
stay  away,  can  you?" 

"Why  should  I?  All  my  friends  livin'  here.  What 
is  this — the  drag-net?" 

[8] 


"THE    DIP" 

"I  don't  know.  They  told  us  to  bring  you  in  if 
we  found  you.  Who's  your  friend  here?" 

"It'll  do  me  a  lot  o'  good  to  tell  you,  won't  it?  If 
I  say  he's  a  young  fellow  that's  gone  broke  and  that 
I  just  happened  to  meet  him  an'  stake  him  for  a  day 
or  two  till  he  could  pick  up  somethin',  of  course  every 
body  over  at  the  station  '11  believe  me?" 

"They  may,  if  you  tell  it  without  laughin'.  Come 
on." 

A  few  minutes  later  here  were  Franzen  and  the 
Good  Samaritan  bumping  over  the  granite  blocks  on 
their  way  to  the  police  station.  Franzen  was  sur 
prised  to  find  himself  indifferent. 

"I'm  sorry  to  get  you  pinched,  young  fellow,"  said 
Eddie,  through  the  gloom  of  the  covered  wagon.  "I 
ought  to  have  told  you  you  was  takin'  a  chance  when 
you  went  around  with  me.  I'm  a  bad  little  boy,  ain't 
I,  Mr.  Policeman?" 

"Oh-h-h !"  growled  the  wagon-man. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Franzen.  "What  right 
did  they  have  to  arrest  either  one  of  us  ?" 

Eddie  laughed  and  remarked:  "You  don't  half 
know  this  town." 

The  wagon-policeman,  whose  shape  blocked  the 
light  coming  in  at  the  narrow  window,  gave  a  dis 
gusted  mumble,  in  token  of  the  fact  that  he  could  not 

[9] 


"THE    DIP" 

be  deceived  by  their  talk.  He  was  possessed  of  a 
brutal  unbelief,  which  he  regarded  as  a  fine  quality 
of  discernment. 

At  the  station  they  were  separated.  Franzen  gave 
his  right  name  to  the  man  in  the  cage,  much  to  Eddie's 
amusement.  The  man  in  the  cage  did  not  have  to 
ask  for  Eddie's  name. 

Franzen  slept  on  a  bench  and  he  slept,  too,  lulled 
off  with  a  mild  impersonal  wonder  as  to  what  his  uncle 
and  his  aunt  would  say  if  they  knew  that  their  orphan 
charge  was  locked  up  in  a  police-station,  and  had  not 
changed  shirts  for  a  week.  Next  morning  he  ate  his 
heel  of  bread  and  drank  his  tin  of  coffee  and  looked 
out  through  the  parallel  bars  at  the  bedraggled  men 
and  women  who  were  being  mustered  for  the  morning 
session  of  court.  He  could  not  see  Eddie  anywhere. 
Some  one  was  whistling  at  the  other  end  of  the  cor 
ridor.  He  surmised  that  it  was  Eddie. 

Then  a  turnkey  in  blue  came  and  opened  his  cell- 
door. 

"Come  on,"  said  the  turnkey,  and  Franzen  followed 
upstairs  into  a  hot  room,  where  a  big  captain  with  a 
grey  moustache  sat  at  the  desk. 

The  captain  looked  at  Franzen  threateningly  and 
said :  "I  don't  know  him." 

Other  men  with  moustaches  came  in  and  looked  at 
[10] 


"THE    DIP" 

Franzen.  They  didn't  know  him  either,  and  they  re 
gretted  to  say  it.  It  showed  a  lack  of  professional 
knowledge  not  to  be  able  to  identify  any  stranger  as 
a  professional  crook. 

"How  long  have  you  and  Eddie  been  workin'  to 
gether?"  one  of  them  asked. 

"I've  never  worked  with  him,"  said  Franzen.  "I've 
been  looking  for  work  all  week." 

He  told  them  his  story — the  truth  of  it.  Five  big 
men  smiled  broadly  and  stared  at  him  in  contempt. 
They  knew  better. 

"An'  you  didn't  know  Eddie  was  a  dip  ?"  asked  the 
captain. 

"A  what?"  (Laughter.) 

"A  dip." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  pickpockets?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  a  dip  is  a  pickpocket.  That's  what  Eddie 
is." 

"I  don'  care  what  he  is.  He  did  me  a  good  turn.  I 
never  saw  him  until  night  before  last." 

"This  fellow  can  be  vagged,"  said  one  of  the  big 
men.  "He  admits  himself  he's  out  o'  money  an'  ain't 
got  a  job." 

"That's  why   he  ain't   a  vag,"   said  the   captain. 


"THE   DIP" 

"The  vag  has  always  got  a  job  and  plenty  of  money." 
Then  to  Franzen:  "You  keep  away  from  Eddie  an' 
his  crowd."  This  meant  that  Franzen  was  free  to  go. 

He  started  to  leave  the  station  and  was  attracted  by 
the  buzz  of  the  courtroom.  He  went  in,  hoping  to 
see  Eddie  again.  There  was  a  noisy  and  jostling 
crowd  around  the  magistrate's  high  throne.  Cases 
were  being  tried,  but  Franzen  could  not  follow  them  in 
the  confusion  of  sounds. 

At  last  he  saw  Eddie  coming  out  of  the  throng, 
held  by  a  turnkey. 

He  slipped  forward  along  the  wall  and  touched  him 
on  the  arm. 

"Hello  there,"  he  said. 

Eddie  turned  and  grinned. 

"Did  you  fix  it?"  he  asked. 

"They  let  me  go." 

"It's  a  wonder — bein'  with  me." 

"Here,  here !"  growled  the  turnkey.     "Come  on !" 

"I'm  sent  out,"  said  Eddie. 

"Where?" 

"Where  do  you  s'pose — I  won't  be  there  day  after 
to-morrow.  Good-bye." 

"Say,  I  want  to  thank  you  for ; 

"That's  all  right." 

"You  never  told  me  your  name." 
[12] 


"THE    DIP" 

"You  ask  here  at  the  station.  They'll  give  you  all 
of  my  names." 

"Come  on !"  said  the  turnkey,  pulling. 

Eddie  winked  and  the  battered  door  closed  behind 
him. 


-[18] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

Markley  was  in  a  small  back  room  on  the  second  floor. 
It  was  whispered  that  he  had  a  wife  somewhere,  and 
that  she  had  cast  him  into  the  street,  or,  what  was  al 
most  as  deplorable,  into  the  St.  Clement  Hotel. 

It  was  hard  to  believe.  Markley  was  a  little  man 
with  a  creepy  walk  and  mild  grey  eyes.  He  seemed  a 
gentle  soul.  Most  of  the  time  he  sat  apart  from  the 
other  men,  smoking  a  darkened  briar  pipe  and  gazing 
vacantly  into  the  street. 

At  other  times  he  would  be  in  the  stuffy  writing- 
room,  composing  letters  of  many  pages.  It  was  sup 
posed  that  these  letters  were  to  his  wife,  as  he  would 
sometimes  pause  in  his  writing  and  cover  his  eyes  with 
a  thin,  bony  hand,  and  sit  thus  in  suggestive  medita 
tion. 

Wilson,  an  employe  of  the  Universal  Transporta 
tion  Company,  was  laid  up  at  the  hotel  for  three 
weeks.  He  moped  and  convalesced  and  read  until  he 
was  desperate,  and  then  he  cultivated  Markley  as  a 
last  resort.  Markley  was  the  only  man  who  could  be 
found  at  all  hours. 

[17] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

At  first  Markley  was  civil  but  not  reciprocal.  Then 
he  slowly  thawed,  finding  that  Wilson  was  sympa 
thetic.  On  the  second  or  third  day  of  their  sitting 
around  together  he  spoke  of  himself.  It  came  out 
that  he  had  been  a  "cub"  machinist  in  his  youth,  then 
a  draughtsman,  and  finally  an  inventor  on  his  own 
account. 

He  had  patented  certain  devices  which  were  used 
by  all  makers  of  passenger  and  freight  elevators,  and 
he  had  thought  out  an  overhead  cash-carrier  of  the 
kind  used  in  retail  stores.  These  patents,  he  was  free 
to  admit,  brought  several  thousands  of  dollars  to  him 
every  year. 

"You  don't  put  on  much  style  for  a  man  who  has 
a  good  income,"  said  Wilson,  meaning  it  as  a  half 
way  compliment. 

"No,  I  don't  care  for  show,  but  Josephine — 
well " 

He  checked  himself  and  once  more  began  to  talk  of 
patents. 

One  day  Markley  invited  Wilson  up  to  the  small 
back  room  to  look  at  a  drawing. 

The  room  was  as  dismal  as  any  hotel  apartment 
could  be.  It  contained  a  bed,  a  trunk,  two  chairs,  and 
a  bureau,  on  which  we^e  four  books,  a  comb  and  brush, 
and  one  photograph. 

[18] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

While  Markley  was  at  the  trunk  to  get  the  draw 
ing,  Wilson  picked  up  the  photograph  and  held  it  in 
the  light. 

The  woman  was  large,  but  somewhat  shrunken 
from  the  animal  fulness  of  youth.  There  was  too 
much  cheek-bone  and  a  bold  look  about  the  eyes. 
Wilson  smiled  at  the  staring  face  with  the  extrava 
gance  of  ribbons  below  and  the  tangle  of  "bang" 
above.  He  was  only  a  clerk  for  a  transfer  company, 
and  a  single  man,  but  he  knew  all  about  women,  of 
course.  He  guessed  that  this  woman  would  wear 
white  shoes  in  the  summer  time  and  prefer  a  yellow 
diamond  to  a  fresh  flower. 

Markley  straightened  up  from  the  trunk  and  saw 
Wilson  looking  at  the  photograph.  He  came  and 
leaned  over  Wilson's  arm. 

"Fine-looking  woman,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  she's  all  right." 

"You  know  who  she  is,  of  course?" 

"No,"  said  Wilson,  in  order  to  protect  his  compli 
ment. 

"That's  my  wife." 

"Oh!" 

Markley  reached  for  the  photograph,  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  told  his  story. 

They  had  been  married  ten  years.  She  was  the 
[19] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

daughter  of  a  livery-man.  He  had  seen  her  and  loved 
her,  but  he  never  dared  to  ask  her  hand  in  marriage 
until  he  began  to  realise  money  on  his  patents. 

She  had  accepted  on  condition  that  he  get  a  house 
in  Michigan  Avenue.  He  laid  aside  a  large  share  of 
his  yearly  income  in  order  that  she  might  have  the 
house.  She  had  enjoyed  Michigan  Avenue  very 
much.  She  had  so  many  friends  there.  She  was  so 
fond  of  society. 

Wilson  glanced  across  at  the  picture,  and  he  could 
see  the  "society." 

Markley  confessed  to  Wilson  that  he  never  cared 
much  for  "society."  He  seldom  went  to  the  "springs" 
with  his  wife.  She  usually  went  with  Mrs.  McLeach- 
kin.  (Wilson  happened  to  know  that  Mr.  McLeach- 
kin  was  an  ex-confidence  man,  who  had  stolen  con 
siderable  money  in  politics.)  The  last  time  she  had 
spoken  of  going  to  the  "springs"  he  (Markley)  had 
advised  against  it.  He  had  heard  of  Mrs.  McLeach- 
kin's  personal  encounter  with  a  race-horse  man  in  an 
all-night  restaurant,  and  he  had  ventured  to  suggest 
that  she  was  not  a  proper  companion  for  his  darling. 
When  he  entered  his  objections  to  Mrs.  McLeachkin 
he  was  ordered  out  of  the  house  by  Mrs.  Markley, 
and  told  that  he  must  never  come  back.  Since  that 

[20] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

unhappy  day  he  had  been  living  at  the  St.  Clement, 
wretched  in  spirit,  but  still  hopeful  that  Mrs.  Mark- 
ley  would  forgive  him  and  receive  him  back  into  the 
Michigan  Avenue  home. 

Wilson  heard  the  story  to  the  end,  and  then  he 
arose  and  walked  back  and  forth,  full  of  the  superior 
wrath  of  the  bachelor. 

"Who  owns  that  house?"  he  asked. 

"We  do — Josephine  and  me." 

"It's  in  your  name,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  try  any  harsh  measures. 
She's  mad  enough  now." 

"What  is  she  doing  for  money?" 

"She  gets  so  much  a  month.    We  fixed  that." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  shut  off  her  supply?  That'll 
bring  her  to  her  senses." 

Markley  shook  his  head  and  sighed.  "No,  I 
wouldn't  do  that,"  he  said.  "She's  a  woman  with  a 
lot  of  spunk  and  spirit,  and  I'd  never  hear  the  last 
of  it." 

"Do  you  expect  to  go  back  and  live  with  her 
again?" 

"I  think  she'll  give  in.  I've  been  writing  to  her  a 
good  deal." 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  you're  stopping  here  at 
the  St.  Clement  and  putting  up  money  to  let  that 
[21] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

woman  chase  all  over  the  country  and  have  a  good 
time  ?  Oh,  I  think  I  see  myself  doing  that !" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Wilson,  that's  the  only 
way  to  do  anything  with  her.  You  don't  know  her 
the  way  I  do.  You've  got  to  handle  her  easy.  She's 
just  back  from  New  York  now,  and  I've  been  sending 
a  few  little  presents  down  there  to  sort  of  make  her 
forget  our  trouble." 

"Forget  nothing!  You  didn't  do  anything  but 
warn  her  against  running  around  with  that  calcimined 
blonde,  who,  if  you  won't  mind  my  saying  it,  is  just 
a  little  tougher  than  sole  leather.  Everybody  knows 
about  her.  You  did  right,  so  don't  weaken !" 

"Yes,  I  heard  some  of  the  reports.  I  don't  think 
Josephine  ought  to  go  with  her,  but  I  might  have 
known  she  wouldn't  stand  having  me  tell  her  to  do  this 
or  do  that.  Still  it'll  come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  I 
kind  o'  believe  it  will." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so.  She  knows  when  she's  got  a 
good  thing." 

Markley  wore  such  a  reproachful  look,  that  Wilson 
changed  the  subject. 

Late  one  afternoon,  about  a  week  after  that,  Wil 
son  came  to  the  hotel  and  saw  standing  in  front  a 
coupe,  on  top  of  which  was  a  lean  negro  with  an  ex 
aggerated  fur-collar.  It  was  not  often  that  a  car- 
[22] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

riage  stopped  in  front  of  the  St.  Clement,  and  Wil 
son  therefore  asked  the  clerk,  "Who's  our  swell 
visitor  ?" 

"Sh-h-h !  I  think  it  must  be  Markley's  wife. 
They're  in  the  parlour  there." 

Wilson  walked  softly  toward  the  tawdry  hole 
known  as  the  "parlour"  and  peeped  from  behind  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Markley  sat  calm  and  erect  in  a  wreckage 
of  department-store  fabrics  meant  for  gentler  har 
monies.  She  was  powdered,  except  on  the  neck  and 
under  the  ears,  and  as  she  plucked,  or  rather  pecked, 
at  her  fine  raiment,  Wilson  observed  that  all  her  fingers 
were  circled  with  rings. 

Markley  was  leaning  toward  her,  purring  for  sym 
pathy  and  pity  as  if  he  were  a  pet  kitten.  When  he 
paused  she  looked  down  at  him  and  said,  "Humph !  I 
suppose  so." 

Another  soft  pleading  by  Markley  and  then  she 
smiled  sourly  and  said,  "Oh,  that'll  do  to  tell." 

Another  prolonged  prayer  from  the  suppliant, 
Markley.  She  wriggled  in  her  chair  and  said,  "Oh, 
I  s'pose  so." 

Markley  came  out  of  the  room  and  Wilson  re 
treated.  Markley  overtook  Wilson  and  seized  him  by 
the  arm. 

[23] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

"Say,  it's  all  right,"  he  whispered,  gleefully. 
"Come  up  to  the  room.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  I  want  to  tell 
you.  She's  in  there — in  the  parlour." 

"Your  wife?" 

"Yes,  it  happened  just  right.  She  used  up  all  the 
money  she  had  to  her  account,  and  wanted  some  more 
right  away,  so  she  drove  over  here  to  get  a  check. 
We've  been  talking  it  over,  and  I'm  going  back  home 
with  her." 

Wilson  followed  him  ^'nto  the  room  and  saw  him 
dive  into  the  trunk  for  a  check-book  and  grab  at  the 
hook  for  an  overcoat. 

"She  finally  did  come  to  see  you  when  she  needed 
money,  eh?" 

"This  is  what  I  was  countin'  on.  It  couldn't  have 
happened  better." 

And  he  ran  back  to  Josephine. 

Wilson  waited  in  the  office  to  see  them  go  away. 
Markley  was  in  nervous  ecstasy.  He  took  hold  of 
Josephine's  arm  to  assist  her,  but  she  pulled  away 
and  said,  "Oh,  for  goodness  sake!" 

Markley  came  over  to  Wilson  and  told  him,  aside, 
"I'd  introduce  you,  Mr.  Wilson,  but  you  know  how 
she  is." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Wilson.  "I  don't  be 
long  in  society." 

[24] 


AND    JOSEPHINE    FORGAVE 

"Are  you  comin'  or  ain't  you?"  asked  Josephine  at 
the  door. 

"Yes,  certainly,  all  right,"  he  replied,  and  he  ran. 

Wilson  saw  him  crawl  into  the  coupe  after  her  and 
ride  away — toward  Paradise. 


[25] 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN    PARTY 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN    PARTY 

The  Barclays  never  went  to  summer-gardens  where 
malt  drink  is  served.  They  remained  at  home  and 
looked  at  the  factories.  The  Barclay  home  was  a  red 
brick  cube  with  a  high  and  mournful  roof.  For  ten 
years  it  had  braced  itself  against  the  onsweeping  rush 
of  big  machine-shops  and  steam-bakeries.  Now  it 
stood  alone,  a  remnant  of  the  old  guard  of  that  once 
sylvan  street,  surrounded  and  doomed,  but  not  yet 
surrendering. 

The  Barclay  girls  were  ready  to  move  into  a  new 
house  on  the  boulevard,  but  Mr.  Barclay  preferred  to 
remain  at  home.  The  Methodist  church  was  only 
three  blocks  to  the  west.  Such  friends  as  they  cared 
to  meet  could  still  find  the  house.  Here  they  had  elbow 
room,  green  trees  and  flower-beds.  Sometimes,  when 
the  smoke  drifted  obligingly,  the  sunshine  reached 
them — and  it  was  "home." 

One  summer  day  the  Barclay  girls  decided  to  live 
down  the  unfashionableness  of  the  street  by  giving  a 
lawn  party. 

The  guests  were  to  assemble  at  6.30,  and  there  was 
[29] 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

to  be  croquet  playing  in  the  area  back  of  the  grape- 
arbour.  After  that,  when  it  came  time  for  lighting 
the  Chinese  lanterns  in  the  front  yard,  the  company 
was  to  be  seated  at  the  small  tables  and  provided  with 
ice-cream,  lemonade  and  cake.  Two  artists  were  to 
dispense  mandolin  music.  After  the  serving  of  the 
refreshments  and  in  the  intervals  between  the  mando 
lin  selections,  Eunice  Barclay  was  to  play  a  violin 
solo  and  the  minister  was  to  give  some  of  the  dialect 
recitations  for  which  he  had  become  justly  famous 
with  the  members  of  his  congregation.  The  minister 
had  a  fetching  dialect,  which  was  neither  Yankee, 
German,  nor  Irish,  but  which  he  could  fasten  inter 
changeably  on  any  kind  of  a  character.  Sometimes 
the  minister  would  insert  a  dialect  story  into  a  ser 
mon,  and  cause  even  Mr.  Barclay  to  relax  into  an  un 
willing  smile. 

The  lawn  party  started  cheerfully.  As  the  invited 
ones  came  straying  in,  Mrs.  Barclay  received  them  at 
the  front  porch  and  directed  them  to  the  croquet  game 
back  of  the  grape-arbour.  There  were  but  four  players 
in  the  game,  the  other  people  sitting  at  the  boundaries 
and  simulating  a  sportive  interest.  Flora  and  the 
minister  were  partners  against  Mrs.  Jennings  and  Mr. 
Talbot,  who  was  the  basso 'of  the  church-choir. 

[30] 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

Flora  convulsed  the  company  when  she  exclaimed: 
"Oh,  Mr.  Talbot,  I  kissed  you." 

Now,  what  Flora  really  meant  was  that  her  croquet 
ball  had  kissed  the  croquet  ball  belonging  to  Mr.  Tal 
bot,  but  the  startling  wickedness  implied  in  what  she 
had  said  served  to  pleasantly  horrify  one  and  all. 
Afterward  some  of  the  women  paled  and  pulled  them 
selves  back  and  seemed  to  feel  that  they  had  gone  too 
far  in  their  laughter,  but  they  were  reassured  to  ob 
serve  that  the  minister  was  smiling  and  unruffled. 

The  Barclay  girls  did  not  vibrate  with  the  full 
triumph  of  their  plans  until  the  guests  moved  in  a 
loose  swarm  to  where  the  chairs  and  tables  waited 
under  the  soft  glow  of  lanterns.  The  mandolin  or 
chestra,  consisting  of  a  mandolin  and  guitar,  began 
to  tinkle  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch. 

It  was  still  early  dusk  as  the  company  gaily  took 
possession  of  the  small  tables.  The  reserve  which  had 
chilled  the  beginning  of  the  croquet  contest  had 
gradually  worn  away,  and  bright  conversational 
flings  went  from  table  to  table,  many  of  them  aimed 
at  the  minister,  who  was  accused  of  inordinate  haste 
in  getting  at  the  ice-cream.  He  laid  the  blame  on 
Sister  Crandall,  and  said  she  had  asked  him  to  lead 
the  way  to  the  refreshments.  Mrs.  Crandall  protested 
in  mock  anger,  and  Mr.  Barclay  laughed  immoder- 
[31] 


THE     BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

ately,  for  he  did  not  object  to  mischievous  persiflage, 
under  certain  limitations. 

A  small  boy  had  hung  his  face  in  a  restful  way  be 
tween  two  pickets  of  the  front  fence  and  was  gaping 
at  the  company.  He  was  a  big-eyed  boy,  and  those 
who  glanced  toward  him  were  made  to  think  of  a 
bloodless  head  impaled  on  two  pikes.  His  silent 
scrutiny  seemed  to  embarrass  even  the  minister.  Eu 
nice  Barclay  went  over  to  him  and  said,  "Run  away 
now,  that's  a  good  little  boy."  He  backed  away  a  few 
steps,  staring  at  her  sullenly,  and  when  she  rejoined 
the  minister,  he  eased  his  chin  between  the  pickets  once 
more  and  grinned  defiantly. 

The  orchestra  began  a  medley  of  popular  songs. 
Three  other  boys  came  to  the  fence  and  asked  the  big- 
eyed  boy  what  was  up.  In  a  loud  tone  he  urged  them 
to  keep  still  and  listen  to  the  music.  Two  men  In 
their  shirt-sleeves  came  along  and  stopped  for  the  free 
concert.  A  little  girl,  having  peeped  through  to  get 
material  for  a  connected  story,  ran  away  to  arouse  her 
friends  and  bring  them  to  the  scene  of  festival. 

By  the  time  the  orchestra  came  to  a  rousing  finish 
there  were  nine  male  persons  punctuated  along  the 
fence,  and  a  moment  later  no  less  then  seven  little  girls 
mobilised  and  wriggled  their  fingers  between  the  pal 
ings  and  began  to  point  out  objects  of  interest. 
[32] 


THE     BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

The  Barclay  guests  stiffened  themselves  in  their 
chairs  and  conversed  laboriously,  determined  to  ig 
nore,  and  thus  repel,  the  low  curiosity. 

But  when  one  of  the  men  in  shirt-sleeves  suggested 
to  the  orchestra  that  it  "Play  something  else,"  a  per 
ceptible  shiver  ran  through  the  assemblage.  The  little 
girls  began  to  speculate  earnestly  as  to  the  quality  of 
the  ice-cream. 

Flora  Barclay  fanned  herself  rapidly  and  said, 
"Well,  I  never!"  several  times.  Then  she  asked, 
"Don't  you  suppose  they  would  go  away  if  you  asked 
them  to,  Mr,  Talbot?". 

Mr,  Talbot  weighs  130  pounds,  and  it  may  be  that 
he  was  not  meant  for  the  commander's  purple.  But  he 
said  he  would  try. 

He  approached  the  fence,  and,  addressing  the  line 
of  outsiders,  said:  "This  is  just  a  little  private 
party,  you  know,  and  we'd  be  much  obliged  if  you 
wouldn't  stand  here." 

"We  ain't  hurtin'  you,"  said  one  of  the  bulky  men. 
"Go  on  with  your  show." 

"I  know,  but  the  ladies  who  live  here  would  rather 
that  you — that  is,  wouldn't  congregate  here." 

The  men   looked  at  one  another,  undecided,   and 
then  one  of  them  said :    "I  don't  like  to  be  drove  away 
from  a  place  while  I'm  behavin'  like  a  gentleman." 
[33] 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

"That's  right,"  mumbled  his  neighbour,  his  man 
ner  indicating  that  he  had  been  stung  in  his  American 
pride. 

Mr.  Talbot  rejoined  Flora  and  said  he  believed  the 
men  would  go  away  presently.  But  they  did  not  go 
away. 

The  orchestra  played  again,  and  the  attendance  in 
creased.  A  crowd  gathers  itself  like  a  rolling  snow 
ball.  The  larger  it  becomes,  the  greater  is  its  drawing 
power. 

Those  who  arrived  during  the  second  music  loudly 
asked  what  was  happening,  and  some  of  them  seemed 
to  believe  that  the  music  and  the  display  of  lanterns 
had  a  political  significance.  By  this  time  the  min 
ister  was  comforting  the  women  by  telling  them  that 
it  was  "most  unfortunate."  Mr.  Talbot  was  worried. 
Again  Flora  had  asked  him  to  "do  something."  What 
could  he  do  ? 

Great  was  his  relief  when  he  saw  an  officer  of  the 
law.  The  policeman  had  parted  a  way  for  himself 
and  was  leaning  heavily  on  the  fence,  a  thoughtful 
expression  mantling  his  face  as  he  listened  to  the 
music. 

"Please,  Mr.  Officer,"  said  Mr.  Talbot,  "won't  you 
get  these  people  to  go  away  ?  This  is  a  private  lawn- 
party." 


THE    BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

"Do  they  bother  you?"  asked  the  policeman. 

"I  should  say  so." 

"I  don't  know  as  I've  got  any  right  to  move  'em." 

"Haven't  got  any  right!  Of  course  you've  got  a 
right.  I  appeal  to  you,  sir.  What's  your  number?" 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  try  to  get  'em  back,"  said  the  police 
man. 

So  he  started  along  the  fence,  saying :  "Come  now, 
you'll  have  to  move  away  from  here."  Every  one 
retired  before  the  majesty  of  his  presence  until  he 
came  to  the  man  who  previously  had  said  that  he 
didn't  "want  to  be  drove  away."  This  man  began  to 
ask  questions  of  the  policeman. 

"Who  owns  this  sidewalk?"  he  demanded.  "These 
people  here  don't  own  the  street,  do  they?  You  don't 
have  to  do  what  they  say,  do  you?  Ain't  I  a  tax 
payer  ?  Have  I  violated  any  ordinance,  huh  ?" 

The  policeman  was  not  a  bureau  of  information. 
He  took  the  inquisitive  man  by  the  neck  and  at 
tempted  to  throttle  him.  The  next  moment  there  was 
a  whirlwind  battle. 

The  timid  women  under  the  Barclay  trees  screamed 
and  caught  hold  of  one  another.  Tables  were  upset 
and  dishes  went  avalanching.  Beyond  the  fence,  a 
rosewood  club  twirled  in  the  uncertain  light  and  the 
tax-payer  lunged  to  avoid  it. 
[35] 


THE     BARCLAY    LAWN     PARTY 

Then  a  patrol-wagon  at  the  corner  and  two  hun 
dred  spectators  helping  to  load  the  damaged  tax 
payer  into  it. 

Solemn,  churchly  men  leading  shaky  women  out  of 
the  Barclay  front  gate. 

Flora  in  a  summer-chair  on  the  vine-sheltered  porch, 
squirming  with  hysteria  and  Mr.  Talbot  trying  to 
console  her. 

"Oh!  Oh!  The  barbarians!"  she  gasped,  with  her 
handkerchief  crumpled  against  her  cheek. 

"They  are.  They  are,  indeed,"  assented  Mr.  Tal 
bot,  reaching  for  her  hand. 

"We've  wanted  to  move  out  of  this  dreadful  neigh 
bourhood  for  years,  but  father — Oh —  '  and  once 
more  collapse  seemed  imminent.  But  Mr.  Talbot  was 
holding  her  hand  in  both  of  his  hands. 

"Let  your  father  stay  if  he  wants  to,  but  you  and 
me  can  go  and  live  wherever  you  say," 

Ungrammatical  and  undiplomatic,  true,  but  it 
served  the  purpose  and  it  had  to  happen  some  time. 


[36] 


WHY     "GONDOLA" 
AWAY 


WAS     PUT 


WHY    "GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT 
AWAY 

"Gondola"  Wilson  was  not  a  tramp,  because  he 
knew  a  trade  and  had  been  known  to  work.  He  was 
a  tramp  in  this,  however,  that  he  consistently  refused 
to  pay  railway  fares.  Hence  his  name.  "Gondola" 
is  submerged  tenth  for  "flat-car." 

He  was  a  journeyman  of  the  restless  kind.  When 
he  had  been  three  weeks  in  Milwaukee,  then  St.  Paul 
seemed  a  more  desirable  place  of  residence.  When  in 
St.  Paul,  he  had  a  tired  hankering  to  see  the  Narcissus 
lodging-house  in  Chicago.  After  he  had  arrived  at 
the  Narcissus,  he  began  to  watch  the  trains  starting 
for  Cincinnati  and  longed  to  curl  himself  on  a  truck 
and  jolt  away  to  where  the  muddy  stream  fronts  the 
sloping  warehouses. 

Once  he  was  away  from  the  Narcissus  for  a  whole 
year.  On  the  day  of  his  return  to  the  Narcissus  (the 
prison  pallor  on  his  face  and  his  head  cropped  to  show 
white  scars )  six  inmates  were  sitting  near  the  windows 
reading  a  morning  newspaper.  They  had  torn  the 
paper  into  sheets  and  divided  it.  The  man  who  had 
[39] 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

drawn  the  small  "ads."  was  discontented.  He  could 
find  nothing  on  his  sheet  except  "Help  Wanted."  He 
lowered  his  paper  and  before  him  sat  "Gondola"  Wil 
son,  seeming  yellow  in  the  filtered  light. 

"Where's  the  committee?"  asked  "Gondola." 
"Where's  the  triumphal  arch,  'Welcome  Home'  ?" 

"You're  alive,  then?" 

"Alive  and  kickin'," 

"If  you're  alive,  it  follows  that  you're  kickin'.  How 
long  has  it  been?" 

"A  year — next  month." 

"You  had  to  go  crooked  at  last,  did  you?" 

"Well,  that's  what  they  called  it.  I'm  lucky  they 
didn't  hang  me.  Some  of  'em  wanted  to." 

"Tell  me  what  you  done.    I  ain't  the  court." 

"Say,  listen,  an'  see  if  you  ever  heard  the  likes  be 
fore.  It  was  in  October — a  year  ago  last  October. 
I'd  walked  from  Loueyville  over  to  Terry  Hut  with  a 
nigger  that  played  the  mouth-harp.  We  hid  in  the 
yards  at  Terry  Hut  an'  got  into  an  empty  stock  that 
we  thought  was  headed  for  Danville.  Some  time  in 
the  night  a  brakeman  seen  us  an'  fired  us  out.  I'd 
been  asleep  and  the  first  thing  I  remember  was  f allin' 
out  o'  the  car  an'  lightin'  hard,  with  the  coon  comin' 
after  me.  We  didn't  know  where  we  was,  but  we  could 
make  out  a  side  track  an'  a  chute  for  loadin'  hogs. 
[40] 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

About  a  mile  off  we  could  see  some  lights  an'  we  judged 
we  was  near  a  purty  good-sized  town.  Me  an'  the 
coon  started  to  walk  toward  town  an'  then  I  stopped 
him  an'  says :  'Here,  if  we  go  to  drillin'  around  town 
at  this  time  o'  night  an'  one  o'  them  country  coppers 
gets  a  peep  at  us,  he'll  shoot  us  first  and  then  ask  us 
our  names  afterwards.  Let's  crawl  in  somewheres  an* 
sleep  till  mornin'  an'  then  we'll  go  in  town  an'  try  to 
round  up  a  hand-out.'  Well,  just  as  I  was  say  in'  this, 
we  happened  to  be  walkin'  along  past  a  tall  fence.  I 
looked  through  the  cracks  an'  could  see  one  or  two 
lights  quite  a  distance  off  an'  right  near  us  was  a  long 
buildin'  that  looked  somethin'  like  a  barn.  It  was  get- 
tin'  chilly  an'  I  said  to  this  pardner  of  mine,  'Coon,  gi' 
me  a  boost  over  the  fence  an'  I  think  we  can  find  a  warm 
place  here.'  So  we  skinned  over  the  fence  an'  come  to 
the  buildin'.  It  was  a  big  buildin'.  I  still  thought  it 
was  a  barn.  We  walked  around,  lookin'  for  a  door  or 
window,  so  't  we  could  crawl  in.  At  last  this  pardner 
of  mine — his  name  'uz  Jeff  an'  I'll  kill  him  if  ever  I 
lay  eyes  on  him  again — Jeff  found  a  little  door  that 
wasn't  locked  an'  we  went  in,  feclin'  our  way  along, 
thinkin',  you  know,  that  we  might  find  some  hay  or 
straw  to  sleep  on.  Purty  soon  Jeff  fell  over  some- 
thin'  an'  I  landed  on  top  of  him.  We  felt  around  us 
an'  discovered  that  we'd  run  into  a  lot  o'  watermelons 
[41] 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

layin'  on  the  floor.  I  s'pose  the  coon  was  sorry  to 
meet  them  melons,  huh?  The  first  thing  I  knew  he'd 
split  one  of  'em  open  an'  I  could  hear  him  chompin* 
in  the  dark.  Well,  I  got  up  an'  felt  my  way  along 
an'  purty  soon  I  reached  out  an'  what  do  you  s'pose 
I  took  holt  of  there  in  the  pitch  dark  ?  This  ain't  no 
dream  I'm  tellin'  you.  What  do  you  think  I  took  holt 
of?  A  plate  with  about  a  dozen  biscuits  on  it.  Now, 
I  ain't  no  crook  an'  I  never  broke  into  a  house  to  steal 
anything,  but  I'll  leave  this  to  you.  If  you  hadn't 
had  anything  to  eat  for  eighteen  hours  an'  should 
happen  to  crawl  into  a  barn  at  night  an'  reach  out 
into  the  dark  an'  find  a  dozen  light  biscuits,  would 
you  eat  'em  or  throw  'em  away  ?" 

"I'd  prob'ly  eat  'em,"  was  the  reply. 

"That's  what  I  done,  except  what  I  give  to  Jeff. 
He  found  a  match  in  his  close  an'  struck  it,  an'  we  saw 
in  front  of  us  a  wooden  shelf  covered  with  pies  and 
cakes  an'  all  kinds  o'  cooked  stuff.  The  match  only 
burned  for  a  minute,  but  we  made  out  that  much. 
Jeff  found  a  plate  o'  butter,  an'  we  et  the  biscuit  with 
butter,  an'  I  ain't  tasted  anything  like  it  since  I  run 
away  from  home  in  Lowell  thirty  years  ago.  Then 
Jeff  broke  a  cake  in  two  an'  give  me  half  of  it.  It  was 
kind  o'  dry  eatin,  but  we  put  lots  of  butter  on  it.  I 
s'pose  I  ought  to  stopped  an'  remembered  that  all  this 
[42] 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

provender  belonged  to  somebody,  but  I  was  so  blamed 
hungry  I  didn't  wait  to  think  of  nothin'.  An'  I  must 
say  I  never  seen  anybody  eat  the  way  that  coon  did. 
I  didn't  exactly  see  him  eat,  neither,  but  I  could  hear 
him  all  right.  After  he  et  all  the  cakes  an'  pies  and 
biscuits  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  he  went  back  to 
watermelon,  an'  I  could  hear  him  sloshin'  an'  gulpin' 
there  in  the  dark.  I  started  to  feel  around  for  a  soft 
place  to  lay  down,  an'  what  do  you  guess  ?  I  run  into 
a  lot  of  bed-cloze  on  lines." 

"Say,  what  kind  of  a  pipe  is  this?"  asked  the 
listener,  with  a  sidewise  turn  in  his  chair,  indicating 
scepticism. 

"It's  the  truth,  every  word  of  it.  There  must  a' 
been  a  dozen  quilts.  I  pulled  'em  down  an'  me  and 
Jeff  rolled  ourselves  up  in  'em  an'  went  to  sleep. 
We'd  et  a  lot  an'  it  was  a  cold  night,  an'  under  them 
warm  covers  we  slept  like  a  couple  o'  logs.  Well,  the 
next  thing  I  remember,  somebody  was  shakin'  me  good 
an'  hard,  an'  I  looked  up  at  a  fellow  that  had  a  tin 
star  on  his  coat  an'  a  broomstick  in  his  hand.  I  kind 
o'  remembered  what  had  happened  an'  looked  around. 
It  was  broad  daylight.  We  laid  there  in  the  infer 
nal  est  mess  of  eatables  you  ever  seen.  People  was 
pilin'  through  the  doors  to  get  a  look  at  us.  I  don't 
suppose  you've  figured  out  what  we'd  done,  so  I'll 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

tell  you.  This  place  we'd  got  into  was  what  they  call 
Floral  Hall  at  the  county  fair.  All  the  stuff  we'd 
been  eatin'  was  the  exhibitions  of  the  best  biscuits,  the 
best  watermelons,  the  best  cake,  the  best  butter,  an' 
so  on  of  the  whole  county.  You  know  the  quilt  I  had 
around  me.  Well,  it  was  made  of  about  a  million  little 
pieces  o'  silk.  The  woman  that  made  it  put  in  fifteen 
years  on  it,  and  it  was  supposed  to  be  worth  two  hun 
dred  dollars.  That  all  come  out  at  the  trial." 

"Well,  there  must  a'  been  a  sore  crowd  o'  grangers 
around  there,"  suggested  the  lodger. 

"Honest,  it's  a  wonder  they  didn't  kill  me.  We 
come  mighty  near  bustin'  up  the  whole  show  by  eatin' 
them  exhibitions.  When  they  led  us  out  o'  the 
grounds  an'  took  us  in  town  to  the  jail  there  was  a 
big  crowd  follered  us  an'  hollered  'Lynch  'em!' 
'String  'em  up !'  an'  a  few  more  remarks  like  that. 
That  was  the  one  time  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  put  in 
jail.  Do  you  know  what  they  made  it  when  it  come 
to  a  trial?  Burglary!  An'  do  you  know  what  Jeff 
done?  He  got  up  an'  swore  that  I'd  hypnotised  him. 
He  testified  that  he  didn't  want  to  go  into  this  buildin' 
at  all,  but  I  made  him  by  threatenin'  to  cast  a  spell 
over  him.  You  never  heard  such  lyin'  in  your  life. 
They  sent  him  back  to  jail  for  three  months  an'  put 
me  over  the  road  for  a  year.  They've  bleached  me 
[44] 


"GONDOLA"    WAS    PUT    AWAY 

just  about  right,  ain't  they?  That's  all  right, 
though.  Look  here." 

He  put  his  hand  into  a  ravelled  side  pocket  and 
brought  out  a  copy  of  Henry  George's  "Progress  and 
Poverty."  He  made  a  deeper  reach  and  found  a 
brass  "knucks"  with  a  blunt  head  and  three  staring 
finger-holds. 

"I'm  savin'  that  for  the  coon,"  he  said. 


[45] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 


EFFIE    WHITTLESY 

Mrs.  Wallace  assisted  her  husband  to  remove  his 
overcoat  and  put  her  warm  palms  against  his  red 
and  wind-beaten  cheeks. 

"I  have  good  news,"  said  she. 

"Another  bargain  sale?" 

"Pshaw,  no!  A  new  girl,  and  I  really  believe  she's 
a  jewel.  She  isn't  young  or  good-looking,  and  when 
I  asked  her  if  she  wanted  any  nights  off  she  said 
she  wouldn't  go  out  after  dark  for  anything  in  the 
world.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"That's  too  good  to  be  true." 

"No,  it  isn't.  Wait  and  see  her.  She  came  here 
from  the  intelligence  office  about  two  o'clock  and  said 
she  was  willing  to  'lick  right  in.'  You  wouldn't  know 
the  kitchen.  She  has  it  as  clean  as  a  pin." 

"What  nationality?" 

"None — that  is,  she's  a  home  product.  She's  from 
the  country — and  green!  But  she's  a  good  soul,  I'm 
sure.  As  soon  as  I  looked  at  her,  I  just  felt  sure  that 
we  could  trust  her." 

[49] 


E  F  F I E     WHITTLESY 

"Well,  I  hope  so.  If  she  is  all  that  you  say,  why, 
for  goodness  sake  give  her  any  pay  she  wants — put 
lace  curtains  in  her  room  and  subscribe  for  all  the 
story  papers  on  the  market." 

"Bless  you,  I  don't  believe  she'd  read  them.  Every 
time  I've  looked  into  the  kitchen  she's  been  working 
like  a  Trojan  and  singing  'Beulah  Land.'  ' 

"Oh,  she  sings,  does  she?  I  knew  there'd  be  some 
draw-back." 

"You  won't  mind  that.  We  can  keep  the  doors 
closed." 

The  dinner-table  was  set  in  tempting  cleanliness. 
Mrs.  Wallace  surveyed  the  arrangement  of  glass  and 
silver  and  gave  a  nod  of  approval  and  relief.  Then 
she  touched  the  bell  and  in  a  moment  the  new  servant 
entered. 

She  was  a  tall  woman  who  had  said  her  last  farewell 
to  girlhood. 

Then  a  very  strange  thing  happened. 

Mr.  Wallace  turned  to  look  at  the  new  girl  and 
his  eyes  enlarged.  He  gazed  at  her  as  if  fascinated 
either  by  cap  or  freckles.  An  expression  of  wonder 
ment  came  to  his  face  and  he  said:  "Well,  by 
George !" 

The  girl  had  come  very  near  the  table  when  she 
took  the  first  overt  glance  at  him.  Why  did  the 
[50] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

tureen  sway  in  her  hands  ?  She  smiled  in  a  frightened 
way  and  hurriedly  set  the  tureen  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Wallace  was  not  long  undecided,  but  during 
that  moment  of  hesitancy  the  panorama  of  his  life  was 
rolled  backward.  He  had  been  reared  in  the  democ 
racy  of  a  small  community,  and  the  democratic  spirit 
came  uppermost. 

"This  isn't  Effie  Whittlesy  ?"  said  he. 

"For  the  land's  sake !"  she  exclaimed,  backing  away, 
and  this  was  a  virtual  confession. 

"You  don't  know  me." 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  Ed  Wallace!" 

Would  that  words  were  ample  to  tell  how  Mrs. 
Wallace  settled  back  in  her  chair  blinking  first  at  her 
husband  and  then  at  the  new  girl,  vainly  trying  to 
understand  what  it  meant. 

She  saw  Mr.  Wallace  reach  awkwardly  across  the 
table  and  shake  hands  with  the  new  girl  and  then  she 
found  voice  to  gasp :  "Of  all  things  !" 

Mr.  Wallace  was  confused  and  without  a  policy. 
He  was  wavering  between  his  formal  duty  as  an  em 
ployer  and  his  natural  regard  for  an  old  friend.  Any 
way,  it  occurred  to  him  that  an  explanation  would  be 
timely. 

"This  is  Effie  Whittlesy  from  Brainerd,"  said  he. 
"I  used  to  go  to  school  with  her.  She's  been  at  our 
[51] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

house  often.     I  haven't  seen  her  for — I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  Chicago,"  turning  to  Effie. 

"Well,  Ed  Wallace,  you  could  knock  me  down  with 
a  feather,"  said  Effie,  who  still  stood  in  a  flustered 
attitude  a  few  paces  back  from  the  table.  "I  had  no 
more  idee  when  I  heard  the  name  Wallace  that  it'd  be 
you,  though  knowin',  of  course,  you  was  up  here. 
Wallace  is  such  a  common  name  I  never  give  it  a 
second  thought.  But  the  minute  I  seen  you — law !  I 
knew  who  it  was,  well  enough." 

"I  thought  you  were  still  at  Brainerd,"  said  Mr. 
Wallace,  after  a  pause. 

"I  left  there  a  year  ago  November,  and  come  to 
visit  Mort's  people.  I  s'pose  you  know  that  Mort 
has  a  position  with  the  street-car  company.  He's  doin' 
so  well.  I  didn't  want  to  be  no  burden  on  him,  so  I 
started  out  on  my  own  hook,  seein'  that  there  was  no 
use  of  goin'  back  to  Brainerd  to  slave  for  two  dollars 
a  week.  I  had  a  good  place  with  Mr.  Sanders,  the 
railroad  man  on  the  north  side,  but  I  left  becuz  they 
wanted  me  to  serve  liquor.  I'd  about  as  soon  handle 
a  toad  as  a  bottle  of  beer.  Liquor  was  the  ruination 
of  Jesse.  He's  gone  to  the  dogs — been  off  with  a 
circus  somcwheres  for  two  years." 

"The  family's  all  broken  up,  eh !"  asked  Mr.  Wal 
lace.  t 
[52] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

"Gone  to  the  four  winds  since  mother  died.  Of 
course  you  know  that  Lora  married  Huntford  Thomas 
and  is  livin'  on  the  old  Murphy  place.  They're  doin' 
about  as  well  as  you  could  expect,  with  Huntford  as 
lazy  as  he  is." 

"Yes?    That's  good,"  said  Mr.  Wallace. 

Was  this  an  old  settlers'  reunion  or  a  quiet  family 
dinner.  The  soup  had  been  waiting. 

Mrs.  Wallace  came  into  the  breach. 

"That  will  be  all  for  the  present,  Effie,"  said  she. 

Effie  gave  a  startled  "Oh!"  and  vanished  into  the 
kitchen. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  Wallace,  turn 
ing  to  her  husband,  who  had  lain  back  in  his  chair  to 
relieve  himself  with  silent  laughter. 

"It  means,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  "that  we  were  chil 
dren  together,  made  mud  pies  in  the  same  puddle 
and  sat  next  to  each  other  in  the  old  school-house  at 
Brainerd.  She  is  a  Whittlesy.  Everybody  in  Brain- 
erd  knew  the  Whittlesy s.  Large  family,  all  poor  as 
church  mice,  but  sociable — and  freckled.  Effie's  a 
good  girl." 

"Effie!    Effie!    And  she  called  you  Ed !" 

"My  dear,  there  are  no  misters  in  Brainerd.  Why 
shouldn't  she  call  me  'Ed'  ?  She  never  heard  me  called 
anything  else." 

[53] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

"She'll  have  to  call  you  something  else  here.  You 
tell  her  so." 

"Now,  don't  ask  me  to  put  on  any  airs  with  one  of 
the  Whittlesys,  because  they  know  me  from  away  back. 
Effie  has  seen  me  licked  at  school.  She  has  been  at 
our  house,  almost  like  one  of  the  family,  when  mother 
was  sick  and  needed  another  girl.  If  my  memory 
serves  me  right,  I've  taken  her  to  singing-school  and 
exhibitions.  So  I'm  in  no  position  to  lord  it  over  her, 
and  I  wouldn't  do  it  any  way.  I'd  hate  to  have  her  go 
back  to  Brainerd  and  report  that  she  met  me  here  in 
Chicago  and  I  was  too  stuck  up  to  remember  old  times 
and  requested  her  to  address  me  as  'Mister  Wallace.' 
Now,  you  never  lived  in  a  small  town." 

"No,  I  never  enjoyed  that  privilege,"  said  Mrs. 
Wallace,  dryly. 

"Well,  it  is  a  privilege  in  some  respects,  but  it 
carries  certain  penalties  with  it,  too.  It's  a  very  poor 
schooling  for  a  fellow  who  wants  to  be  a  snob." 

"I  wouldn't  call  it  snobbishness  to  correct  a  servant 
who  addresses  me  by  my  first  name.  'Ed'  indeed! 
Why,  I  never  dared  to  call  you  that." 

"No,  you  never  lived  in  Brainerd." 

"And  you  say  you  used  to  take  her  to  singing- 
school?" 

"Yes,  ma'am — twenty  years  ago,  in  Brainerd. 
[54] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

You're  not  surprised,  are  you?  You  knew  when  you 
married  me  that  I  was  a  child  of  the  soil,  who  worked 
his  way  through  college  and  came  to  the  city  in  a  suit 
of  store  clothes.  I'll  admit  that  my  past  does  not  ex 
actly  qualify  me  for  the  Four  Hundred,  but  it  will 
be  great  if  I  ever  get  into  politics." 

"I  don't  object  to  your  having  a  past,  but  I  was  just 
thinking  how  pleasant  it  will  be  when  we  give  a  dinner 
party  to  have  her  come  in  and  address  you  as  'Ed.'  ' 

Mr.  Wallace  patted  the  table-cloth  cheerily  with 
both  hands  and  laughed, 

"I  really  don't  believe  you'd  care,"  said  Mrs.  Wal 
lace. 

"Effie  isn't  going  to  demoralise  the  household,"  he 
said,  consolingly.  "Down  in  Brainerd  we  may  be  a 
little  slack  on  the  by-laws  of  etiquette,  but  we  can 
learn  in  time." 

Mrs.  Wallace  touched  the  bell  and  Effie  returned. 

As  she  brought  in  the  second  course,  Mr.  Wallace 
deliberately  encouraged  her  by  an  amiable  smile,  and 
she  asked,  "Do  you  get  the  Brainerd  papers?" 

"Yes — every  week." 

"There's  been  a  good  deal  of  sickness  down  there 
this  winter.  Lora  wrote  to  me  that  your  uncle  Joe 
had  been  kind  o'  poorly." 

"I  think  he's  up  and  around  again." 
[55] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

"That's  good." 

And  she  edged  back  to  the  kitchen. 

With  the  change  for  dessert  she  ventured  to  say: 
"Mort  was  wonderin'  about  you  the  other  day.  He 
said  he  hadn't  saw  you  for  a  long  time.  My !  You've 
got  a  nice  house  here." 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Wallace  published  her  edict. 
Effie  would  have  to  go.  Mr.  Wallace  positively  for 
bade  the  "strong  talking-to"  which  his  wife  advo 
cated.  He  said  it  was  better  that  Effie  should  go,  but 
she  must  be  sent  away  gently  and  diplomatically. 

Effie  was  "doing  up"  the  dishes  when  Mr.  Wallace 
lounged  into  the  kitchen  and  began  a  roundabout  talk. 
His  wife,  seated  in  the  front  ro6m,  heard  the  pro 
longed  murmur.  "Ed"  and  Effie  were  going  over  the 
family  histories  of  Brainerd  and  recalling  incidents 
that  may  have  related  to  mud  pies  or  school  exhibi 
tions. 

Mrs.  Wallace  had  been  a  Twombley,  of  Baltimore, 
and  no  Twombley,  with  relatives  in  Virginia,  could 
humiliate  herself  into  rivalry  with  a  kitchen  girl,  or 
dream  of  such  a  thing,  so  why  should  Mrs.  Wallace 
be  uneasy  and  constantly  wonder  what  Ed  and  Effie 
were  talking  about? 

Mrs.  Wallace  was  faint  from  the  loss  of  pride.  The 
night  before  they  had  dined  with  the  Gages.  Mr. 
[56] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

Wallace,  a  picture  of  distinction  in  his  evening  clothes, 
had  shown  himself  the  bright  light  of  the  seven  who 
sat  at  the  table.  She  had  been  proud  of  him.  Twenty- 
four  hours  later  a  servant  emerges  from  the  kitchen 
and  hails  him  as  "Ed"! 

The  low  talk  in  the  kitchen  continued.  Mrs.  Wal 
lace  had  a  feverish  longing  to  tip-toe  down  that  way 
and  listen,  or  else  go  into  the  kitchen,  sweepingly,  and 
with  a  few  succinct  commands,  set  Miss  Whittlesy 
back  into  her  menial  station.  But  she  knew  that  Mr. 
Wallace  would  misinterpret  any  such  move  and 
probably  taunt  her  with  joking  references  to  her 
"jealousy,"  so  she  forbore. 

Mr.  Wallace,  with  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his  mouth 
(Effie  had  forbidden  him  to  smoke  in  the  kitchen), 
leaned  in  the  doorway  and  waited  to  give  the  con 
versation  a  turn. 

At  last  he  said:  "Effie,  why  don't  you  go  down 
and  visit  Lora  for  a  month  or  so?  She'd  be  glad  to 
see  you." 

"I  know,  Ed,  but  I  ain't  no  Rockefeller  to  lay  off 
work  a  month  at  a  time  an'  go  around  visitin'  my 
relations.  I'd  like  to  well  enough — but " 

"O  pshaw!  I  can  get  you  a  ticket  to  Brainerd 
to-morrow  and  it  won't  cost  you  anything  down 
there." 

[57] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

"No,  it  ain't  Chicago,  that's  a  fact.  A  dollar  goes 
a  good  ways  down  there.  But  what'll  your  wife  do? 
She  told  me  to-day  she'd  had  an  awful  time  gettin' 
any  help." 

"Well — to  tell  you  the  truth,  Effie,  you  see — you're 
an  old  friend  of  mine  and  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your 
being  here  in  my  house  as  a — well,  as  a  hired  girl." 

"No,  I  guess  I'm  a  servant  now.  I  used  to  be  a 
hired  girl  when  I  worked  for  your  ma,  but  now  I'm 
a  servant.  I  don't  see  as  it  makes  any  difference  what 
you  call  me,  as  long  as  the  work's  the  same." 

"You  understand  what  I  mean,  don't  you?  Any 
time  you  come  here  to  my  house  I  want  you  to  come 
as  an  old  acquaintance — a  visitor,  not  a  servant." 

"Ed  Wallace,  don't  be  foolish.  I'd  as  soon  work 
for  you  as  any  one,  and  a  good  deal  sooner." 

"I  know,  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  my  wife  giving 
orders  to  an  old  friend,  as  you  are.  You  understand, 
don't  you?" 

"I  don't  know.    I'll  quit  if  you  say  so." 

"Tut!  tut!  I'll  get  you  that  ticket  and  you  can 
start  for  Brainerd  to-morrow.  Promise  me,  now." 

"I'll  go,  and  tickled  enough,  if  that's  the  way  you 
look  at  it." 

"And  if  you  come  back,  I  can  get  you  a  dozen 
places  to  work." 

[58] 


EFFIE     WHITTLESY 

Next  evening  Effie  departed  by  carriage,  although 
protesting  against  the  luxury. 

"Ed  Wallace,"  said  she,  pausing  in  the  hallway, 
"they  never  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  it  in  Brainerd." 

"Give  them  my  best  and  tell  them  I'm  about  the 


"I'll  do  that.     Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

Mrs.  Wallace,  watching  from  the  wi'ndow,  saw 
Effie  disappear  into  the  carriage. 

"Thank  goodness,"  said  she. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wallace,  to  whom  the  whole  epi 
sode  had  been  like  a  cheering  beverage,  "I've  invited 
her  to  call  when  she  comes  back." 

"To  call— here?" 

"Most  assuredly.  I  told  her  you'd  be  delighted  to 
see  her  at  any  time." 

"The  idea!     Did  you  invite  her,  really?" 

"Of  course  I  did !  And  I'm  reasonably  certain  that 
she'll  come." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"I  think  you  can  manage  it,  even  if  you  never  did 
live  in  Brainerd." 

Then  the  revulsion  came  and  Mrs.  Wallace,  with  a 
full  return  of  pride  in  her  husband,  said  she  would 
try. 

[59] 


THE     FEUD 


THE     FEUD 

In  front  of  the  police-station  the  street  was  a  dismal 
slime.  A  fine  rain  beat  into  the  black  puddles  and 
helped  to  soften  the  islands  of  mud.  Dripping 
trolley-cars  went  by,  hissing  in  disgust,  the  dirty 
water  lifted  by  the  wheels.  Now  and  then,  through 
the  fog  and  drizzle,  some  one  came  wading,  stamped 
his  feet  on  the  mucky  stone  sidewalk  and  entered  the 
station. 

Within  the  sheltered  arch  there  was  a  smell  of  wet 
clothes.  The  men  who  stood  there  had  their  coat- 
collars  turned  up  and  their  hats  pulled  down.  They 
stood  and  looked  out  at  the  rain  with  deadened  eyes. 
The  hallway  beyond  was  gloomy,  and  the  men  against 
the  wall  talked  in  growls. 

At  first  the  court-room  seemed  like  a  cavern,  with 
dim  shapes  moving  stealthily,  their  soggy  feet  making 
little  noise  on  the  floor.  When  the  eye  became  more 
accustomed  to  the  gloom,  there  were  two  sections  of 
benches  facing  the  high  place  where  the  magistrate 
was  to  sit. 

The  water  dripped  on  the  sills  outside.  The  walls 
[631 


THE    FEUD 

beyond  were  rain-soaked  and  blurred  by  fog.  Along 
the  benches  the  men  and  women  sat  motionless — im 
mersed  in  melancholy. 

In  that  darkened  room  there  were  but  two  human 
beings  who  were  able  to  lift  themselves  above  despond 
ency.  A  baby,  with  a  soiled  bib  pulled  awry,  wrig 
gled  over  the  mother's  shoulder  and  made  friendly 
gestures  at  a  baby  on  the  bench  behind.  The  second 
baby  gurgled  in  recognition  and  squirmed  about  in  its 
mother's  arms  as  if  to  gain  freedom  and  then  climb 
over  and  go  visiting. 

The  woman  in  front  looked  around  and  saw  the 
other  woman.  She  pulled  the  clawing  child  away 
from  her  shoulder  and  set  it  in  her  lap  with  a  decided 
concussion. 

The  other  woman  flounced  to  the  end  of  the  bench 
and  turned  the  child  squarely  around  so  as  to  give  it 
a  view  of  a  moist  policeman  blocking  a  doorway. 

After  that  the  two  women  glared  at  each  other 
with  ineffable  hatred. 

These  two  women  were  enemies.  They  had  braved 
the  rain  and  chill  of  a  November  morning,  each  to 
tell  the  magistrate  that  the  other  was  a  slatternly 
gossip  and  a  creature  with  whom  no  honest  people 
could  have  dealings.  They  had  scolded  each  other 
from  back  stoops  and  threatened  each  other  with 
[64] 


THE     FEUD 

kitchen  utensils  and  assailed  family  reputations  until 
nothing  would  satisfy  either  of  them  but  the  swift 
vengeance  of  the  law  on  the  other. 

It  must  have  been  a  shock  for  Mrs.  Montague  when 
she  saw  that  Little  Magnus  Montague  had  crept  up 
and  was  making  love  to  little  Lizzie  Capulet  on  the 
seat  behind. 

No  wonder  she  bumped  Magnus  as  she  replaced  him 
in  her  lap !  If  he  had  been  a  discriminating  baby 
he  would  have  known  that  the  little  Capulet  was  the 
spawn  of  evil  and  an  oblong  beginning  of  all  wicked 
ness. 

If  he  had  possessed  one  spark  of  family  pride  he 
would  have  scorned  to  say  "Goo"  to  any  member  of 
the  hateful  tribe  of  Capulet. 

Who  threw  the  tomato-cans  into  the  Montague 
back  yard?  Who  must  have  stolen  the  morning 
paper  off  the  Montague  front  steps  ?  Who  broke  the 
leg  of  the  Montague  cat?  Answer — the  Capulets. 

And  as  for  Mrs.  Capulet,  was  it  surprising  that 
her  ears  tingled  with  shame  and  her  cheeks  reddened 
as  she  realised  that  her  little  Juliet  had  received  the 
attentions  of  the  accursed  Romeo  of  the  house  of 
Montague — that  Lizzie  had  smiled  in  encouragement 
when  Magnus  said  "Goo"? 

A  child  is  born  and  the  mother  says :    "Flesh  of  my 
[65] 


THE     FEUD 

flesh  and  bone  of  my  bone."  She  watches  over  the 
infant  and  gives  it  wisdom  with  its  food. 

Then  when  the  daughter  is  eleven  months  old  she 
turns  against  the  parent,  forgets  filial  duty  and  would 
follow  Love  and  the  Fates. 

Doubtless  Mrs.  Capulet  trembled  for  her  child's 
safety  as  she  clasped  the  yielding  form.  It  is  not  a 
good  omen — the  daughter  of  a  respectable  house  wrig 
gling  her  fingers  at  a  hardened  young  desperado ! 

Why  should  not  Lizzie  Capulet  know,  as  the  elder 
children  knew,  that  the  Montagues  stole  wood? 

But  it  was  not  too  late!  She  would  rear  the 
daughter  in  the  knowledge  that  Mr.  Montague  drank 
and  that  Mrs.  Montapnc's  hair  was  not  her  own. 

Let  us  hope  that  both  of  the  children  may  be  saved, 
and  that  the  forebodings  of  that  morning  in  the  dusky 
police-station  had  no  meaning. 

The  magistrate  is  doing  what  he  can  to  avert  a 
repetition  of  the  momentary  courtship.  Last  week 
he  put  the  Montagues  under  a  $200  bond  to  keep  the 
peace. 

This  week  he  laid  a  similar  bond  on  the  Capulet 
household. 

Furthermore,  Reinhard  Montague  is  building  a 
high  fence  between  the  two  back-yards. 

[66] 


"TALL-STOY" 


"TALL-STOY' 

"This  is  Mr.  Latimer?"  asked  the  man  with  the 
frock  coat  and  the  sombre  gloves. 

"It  is,"  replied  "Bob,"  swinging  around  in  his 
revolving  chair. 

The  stranger  had  a  slight  stoop  and  wore  delta- 
shaped  side  whiskers  of  iron-grey.  He  went  to  the 
attack  confidingly. 

"Your  name  has  been  given  to  us,  Mr.  Latimer, 
as  one  who  is  fond  of  good  books,"  he  said,  gazing  at 
the  assistant  manager  in  mild  and  solemn  friendliness. 

"Who  is  'us'?"  asked  "Bob." 

"The  Interplanetary  Publishing  Company  is  the 
house  I  have  the  honour  to  represent.  Our  manager 
was  very  anxious  that  I  should  call  on  you.  Even  if 
you  do  not  care  to  place  an  order,  I  know  that  as  a 
lover  of  beautiful  print  and  bindings,  you  will  take 
some  pleasure  in  examining  the  sample  volume  I  have 
here." 

"Your  manager  is  mixed  in  his  dates.  You  have 
hunted  up  the  wrong  Latimer." 

[69] 


"TALL-STOY" 

•'I  hardly  think  so.  You  have  placed  several  orders 
with  us  already,  haven't  you?  Didn't  you  take  a  set 
of  the  Balzac?" 

"I  guess  I  did — four  dollars  per  Balzac.  I've 
got  'em  out  home  there  now,  just  as  good  as 
new." 

"That  was  an  excellent  edition." 

"I  wouldn't  dare  to  contradict  you,  because  I've 
never  looked  into  one  of  'em." 

"I  had  understood  that  you  were  something  of  a 
collector." 

"That  isn't  what  I  call  myself.  I  call  myself  an 
easy  mark.  I've  got  about  as  much  use  for  a  lot  of 
them  books  as  a  Methodist  preacher'd  have  for  a  dark 
lantern  an'  a  pair  o'  loaded  dice.  I  don't  know  how 
I  happened  to  let  myself  be  worked  on  that  first  lot. 
I  guess  I  had  orders  from  home  to  fill  up  the  shelves. 
You  fellows  didn't  do  a  thing  to  me.  Bing!  Four 
dollars  a  throw.  They  may  be  swell  books  all  right 
but  I  don't  have  any  time  to  get  at  'em.  Say,  I  don't 
even  have  time  to  read  the  newspapers." 

"You  have  no  objection,  however,  to  my  showing 
you  some  of  our  new  things." 

"Show  it,  if  you  want  to,  but  you're  simply  usin' 
up  your  own  time,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"I  have  something  here  that  I  fancy  will  please 
[70] 


"TALL-STOY' 

you,"  said  the  stranger,  producing  a  black  oil-cloth 
case  from  under  his  coat  with  the  movement  of  the 
magician  who  finds  the  white  rabbit. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Tolstoi." 

"Come  again." 

"Tolstoi." 

"Tall-stoy?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  you  are  more  or  less  familiar  with 
his  work?" 

"Chicago  man?" 

"I  don't  think  you  caught  the  name — Tolstoi,  the 
eminent  Russian." 

"Russian?" 

"Yes,  he  is  accorded  first  place  among  the  great 
literary  workers  of  the  czar's  domain,  his  writings 
being  characterised  by  simplicity,  immense  strength, 
and  a  sympathy  for  all  mankind,  particularly  the  poor 
and  down-trodden." 

"That's  all  right,  too,  but  if  your  house  wants  to 
get  out  books  and  sell  them  to  people,  why  don't  you 
plug  for  somebody  here  at  home?  There's  lots  of 
good  fellows  in  this  country  you  might  help  to  a  little 
money  if  you  wanted  to.  Instead  of  that,  you  have 
to  hunt  up  some  fellow  over  in  Russia.  You  can  bet 
that  any  coin  he  gets  out  o'  these  books  he  spends 
[71] 


"  T  A  L  L  -  S  T  O  Y  v 

over  there.  He  don't  come  to  Chicago  to  blow  it  in, 
does  he?" 

"Our  house  is  always  ready  to  give  encouragement 
to  American  authors,  but  in  this  line  of  work  you  must 
admit  that  Tolstoi  is  pre-eminent." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something.  You  come  in  here  and 
you  want  me  to  buy  some  books  written  by  this — , 
whatever  his  name  is,  and  you  say  to  me  that  he  is  the 
best  ever?" 

"I  merely  repeat  what  the  critics  have  agreed 
upon." 

"The  critics,  eh?  Now,  let  me  tell  you  about  them. 
I  had  a  friend  here  from  Grand  Rapids  the  other  day 
and  I  wanted  to  take  him  to  a  show.  I  didn't  know 
what  was  good  in  town,  so  I  gets  a  paper  and  reads 
the  notices.  Well,  I  find  one  play  that  gets  an  awful 
lift  all  around,  so  we  go  over  there,  and  say !  it  was 
the  saddest  ever.  It  was  so  punk  it  was  blue  around 
the  edges.  I  don't  want  any  critic  tellin'  me  where 
to  get  off.  I  don't  think  they're  on  the  level.  Now 
you  say  there're  all  out  cappin'  for  this  fellow.  Mebbe 
they  are,  but  look  here,  I  never  heard  of  this  mug 
before  and  I've  been  in  town  all  the  time,  too." 

"He  has  been  writing  for  years." 

"Where?" 

"Over  in  Russia." 


"TALL-STOY" 

"Yes,  an'  I've  been  in  Chicago  all  that  time.  If  he 
wants  to  do  business  with  us  people,  why  don't  he 
come  here?" 

"My  dear  sir,  Count  Tolstoi's  work  has  a  world 
wide  interest.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  notice 
the  print?  The  etchings  are  unusually  good, 
also."  , 

"How  many  books  in  the  set?" 

"There  are  twenty." 

"Oh,  Willie!  I've  just  got  a  panel  photograph  o' 
myself  settin'  up  these  winter  nights  to  read  twenty 
of  these  things  by  his  Russian  nobs.  Is  that  his  pict 
ure — with  the  fringe  ?  He  don't  look  to  me  much  like 
a  count." 

"I  believe,  Mr.  Latimer,  that  you  would  deeply 
enjoy  reading  Tolstoi.  He  appeals  to  all  thoughtful 
people." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do,  swell  me  ?  On  the  level 
do  you  find  a  good  many  people  to  go  against  this 
kind  of  a  game?" 

"I'm  meeting  with  gratifying  success,  Mr.  Lati 
mer.  You  see,  there  has  long  been  a  demand  for  a 
uniform  edition  of  Tolstoi." 

"There  has,  eh?    I  hadn't  heard  about  it." 

"I  sold  three  sets  yesterday  out  at  the  university." 

"What  do  you  get  for  a  set?" 
[73] 


"TALL-STOY" 

"The  price  is  three  dollars  a  volume,  payable  in 
instalments." 

"Sixty  dollars'  worth  of — what's  his  name?" 

"Tolstoi." 

"I'd  have  to  be  getting  my  sixties  easy  to  let  go  of 
'em  for  anything  like  this." 

"You  couldn't  have  a  more  valuable  set  in  your 
library." 

"Yes  ?  Well,  you  tell  it  all  right.  I  s'pose  you  get 
a  piece  of  that  sixty." 

"Naturally — I  get  my  commission." 

"How  much?     About  forty-five?" 

"Oh,  really !  I  merely  get  a  fair  percentage  for 
placing  the  works." 

"Well,  you'll  earn  all  the  percentage  you  get  here." 

"If  you  will " 

"Say,  you  ain't  got  one  chance  in  a  million.  Let 
me  give  you  a  pointer,  too.  Drop  Tall-stoy  and  get 
on  a  live  one.  Here's  your  book.  I  won't  keep  you 
waitin'." 


[74] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

"Albert  r 

"Umh?" 

"Albert,  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

"Well?" 

"Something — let  go  of  my  hand  while  I'm  asking 
you  this,  because  it's  rather  serious." 

"Goodness !" 

"Maybe  not  so  serious,  either,  but — Oh,  I  don't 
know ;  I — I  suppose  I'm  foolish  to  think  about  it,  but 
something  that  Grace  Elliott  said  yesterday " 

"I  wouldn't  care  what  she  said  about  anything." 

"I  don't,  because  I  know  well  enough  that  she  tattles 
all  she  knows  and  a  good  deal  more;  but  it  was  the 
way  she  acted  more  than  anything  else." 

"What  was  it  all  about,  anyway?" 

"It  was  about  you,  for  one." 

"Yes ;  Grace  loves  me — not." 

"It  was  something  about  you  and  some  one  else." 

"Who  was  the  'some  one  else'?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"No.    Was  it  you?" 

[77] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

"No!" 

"No?  Well,  then,  I'm  not  interested  to  hear  any 
thing  about  it." 

"Oh,  you  dear  thing!  It  was  something  about  a 
girl,  though — another  girl." 

"Which  one?    What's  her  name?" 

"I  should  think  you  could  guess." 

"I  don't  see  why.    I  don't  know  many  girls." 

"That's  too  bad  about  you.  Anyway,  you  might 
try." 

"Well,  who  was  it— Rose  Whiting?" 

"Rose  Whiting!    Oh!" 

"Jessie  Cameron?" 

"Albert  Morton,  you're  not  trying  to  guess.  It 
was  Fannie  McClellan." 

"Oh !" 

"Yes.  I  should  think  it  would  be  'Oh.'  You  knew 
the  one  I  meant  all  the  time." 

"Who,  I?     Why  should  I?" 

"Innocence!  Now,  Albert,  stop  laughing,  please. 
I'm  in  earnest." 

"So  am  I,  then.     What  is  it?" 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  something  about  her — about 
you  and  her." 

"All  right.    Anything  you  want  to  know." 

"You  think  I'm  joking,  but  I'm  not.  I've  told  you 
[78] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

things,  Albert,  that  I  never  told  even  to  my  dearest 
girl  friends,  and  I  think  you  might  tell  me  something 
about  Fannie  McClellan,  because — well,  after  Grace 
left  here  yesterday,  I  went  up  to  my  room  and  had  a 
good  cry." 

"It's  too  bad  she  can't  attend  to  her  own  busi 
ness." 

"I  didn't  believe  what  she  said,  but  it  made  me — oh, 
she  has  such  an  aggravating  way  about  her,  and  all 
the  time  she  kisses  you  and  fusses  around  you  and 
pretends  to  be  the  best  friend  you  ever  had  in  the 
whole  wide  world." 

"She  makes  me  tired." 

"After  she'd  gone  away,  I  couldn't  remember  that 
she'd  said  anything  in  just  so  many  words,  but  she 
kept  hinting  around  and  acting  as  if  she  knew  a  lot 
more  than  she  cared  to  tell." 

"Don't  you  remember  anything  she  said?" 

"Well,  it  was  about  you  and — Fannie  McClellan. 
You  did  go  with  her  for  a  while,  didn't  you,  Albert?" 

"Yes,  I  used  to  take  her  to  places  once  in  a  while. 
You  knew  that.  Why,  I  was  with  her  the  first  time  I 
ever  met  you — that  night  at  the  Carleton  Club." 

"Yes,  and  when  we  were  sitting  over  in  the  corner 
she  looked  as  if  she'd  like  to  bite  my  head  off.     Was 
that  the  last  time  you  ever  went  with  her?" 
[79] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

"I  don't  remember.  I  may  have  gone  with  her  once 
or  twice  after  that." 

"You  must  have  gone  with  her  a  good  many  times 
altogether,  counting  when  you  called  and  all  that." 

"Ye-e-s.  I  saw  her,  occasionally,  now  and  then,  for 
a  year  or  so  before  I  met  you." 

"If  that — then  you  must  have  liked  her  better  than 
you  did  the  other  girls." 

"Well,  it  was  natural  that  I  should  like  her  better 
than  some  girls  and  then,  again,  there  were  other  girls 
that  I  liked  about  as  well  as  I  did  her." 

"But  you  went  to  see  her  oftener  than  you  did  any 
other  girl,  now  didn't  you?  Tell  me,  Albert,  please. 
It's  all  past  now  and  it  doesn't  make  the  teeniest  bit  of 
difference  what  happened,  or  whether  you  went  to  see 
her  every  night,  only— 

"Only  what?  If  it  doesn't  make  any  difference, 
what's  all  this  excitement  about?" 

"Now,  don't  get  mad,  Albert." 

"I'm  not  mad." 

"Really?" 

"No!    Pshaw!" 

"Now,  can't  you  see  that  if  we  are  going  to  be  to 
gether  all  our  lives,  Albert,  I  ought  to  know  about 
these  things,  so  that  if  any  one  like  Grace  Elliott 
[80] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

comes  around  dropping  her  hints  and  saying  these 
things  I  can ' 

"Now,  just  one  moment,  Lil.  Let's  understand  this 
whole  business.  What  was  it  Grace  Elliott  said?" 

"As  I  tell  you,  she  didn't  say  anything  in  so  many 
words,  but  you  could  see  what  she  meant." 

"All  right,  then.     What  did  she  mean?" 

"Albert,  you  won't  scold?" 

"No;  go  ahead." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  I  ever  spoke  of  it  at  all." 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  'it'  was." 

"Well,  I  want  you  to  know,  Albert,  that  I  realise 
perfectly  well  that  any  one  can  go  and  see  a  girl  once 
in  awhile,  and  even  take  her  to  parties,  without  becom 
ing  engaged  or  anything  like  that,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  brought  this  up  at  all  only  that  Grace " 

"Oh,  darn  Grace !" 

"Albert!" 

"She  won't  be  a  bridesmaid,  do  you  understand? 
She  won't  be  anything." 

"Albert!  Honestly,  Grace  didn't  actually  say  any 
thing  right  out,  but  I  simply  felt  that  she  meant  some 
thing.  Now — ah — Albert,  you've  told  me  that  you 
never  were  engaged  before,  and  I  know  that,  but — 
well,  you  weren't,  were  you?" 

"I  were  not." 

[81] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

"Oh,  Albert,  I'm  in  earnest." 

"So  am  I." 

"And  you  never  asked  any  one  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"I  might  have  known  that.  She'd  have  grabbed 
you,  quick  enough.  If  I  don't  give  Grace  Elliott  a 
piece  of  my  mind  when  she  comes  around  here  again." 

"I  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  anything  she 
says." 

"I  don't,  but  she  has  such  a  crawly,  tantilising  way 
of-  saying  things  about  people  she  knows  you  like. 
Albert,  do  you  ever  see  Fannie  McClellan  any  more?" 

"I  just  sec  her  once  in  awhile  and  that's  all." 

"You  are — friends  at  least?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"You've  never  had  a  quarrel  or  anything  like  that?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  be  friends. 
She's  a  sweet,  lovely  girl,  and  I  know  she  was  very 
fond  of  you,  and  may  be  yet,  for  all  I  know,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  awfully  mean  of  you  not  to  treat  her 
just  as  beautifully  as  you  could.  I'm  going  to  invite 
her  to  the  wedding.  Do  you  think  she'll  come?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

"There's  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  come?" 

"None  that  I  know  of." 

[82] 


THE     OTHER     GIRL 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  invite  her,  and  then — I  want 
you  to  promise  me  something,  Albert." 

"I  promise.     What  is  it?" 

"Well — after  we're  married  I  want  you  to  promise 
to  let  me  invite  Fannie  to  come  and  call  on  us.  I  want 
to  show  her  that  you  and  I — both  of  us — like  her  just 
the  same  as  if — well,  as  if  nothing  had  ever  hap 
pened." 

"Maybe  she  wouldn't  enjoy  coming." 

"Why  not?  You  don't  mean  that  she  might  be 
jealous?  Why,  you  conceited  thing!" 

"It  isn't  that.  You  don't  know  her  very  well,  do 
you?" 

"But  you  do,  and  I  want  all  of  your  friends  to  be 
my  friends,  and  you  know  you've  promised  to  like  all 
of  my  friends." 

"All  right,  then.  We'll  have  Fannie  to  dinner  as 
soon  as  we're  settled." 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Of  course." 

"It  will  please  her  so  much." 

"Yes?" 

(Snuggling)  "And  you're  the  kindest,  best- 
hearted  thing  that  ever  lived." 


[83] 


THE     JUDGE'S     SON 


THE    JUDGE'S    SON 

Two  men  sat  by  one  of  the  narrow  south  windows  of 
the  Freedom  Hotel.  They  were  tipped  back  in  their 
straight  wooden  chairs  and  their  feet  rested  against 
the  scarred  sill  of  the  window. 

One  of  the  men  was  tall,  with  a  tan-coloured  mous 
tache  and  a  goatee.  He  wore  a  black  slouch  hat, 
which  was  pulled  forward  over  one  eye  so  that  it  gave 
him  a  suggestion  of  rural  bravado.  The  other  man 
was  younger,  hollow-cheeked,  and  with  hair  and  beard 
of  dead  blackness.  His  light-coloured  stiff  hat  seemed 
preposterously  out  of  season,  for  a  slow  but  steady 
sift  of  snow  was  coming  down. 

Both  men  wore  clothes  of  careful  cut,  but  the  shape 
had  gone  from  the  garments.  The  elbows  were  shiny, 
the  vest  buttons  were  not  uniform  and  the  fronts  were 
sadly  spotted. 

In  the  room  with  the  two  men  were  some  fifty  other 
men,  marked  by  adversity,  most  of  them  holding  with 
weakened  pride  to  some  chattel  of  better  days. 

As  many  as  could  find  places  at  the  windows  sat 
and  looked  with  fascinated  idleness  at  the  rushing 
[87] 


THE     JUDGE'S     SON 

money-makers  outside.  Others  put  their  backs  to  the 
dim  light  and  read  from  scraps  of  newspapers.  There 
was  a  smothering  odour  of  pipe-smoke,  which  floated  in 
vague  ribbons  above  the  clustering  heads.  Sometimes 
— but  not  often — the  murmur  of  conversation  was 
broken  by  laughter. 

It  is  a  good  thing  the  Freedom  Hotel  calls  itself 
a  hotel,  otherwise  it  would  be  a  lodging-house.  These 
men  in  the  bare  "office"  were  being  sheltered  at  a 
weekly  rate  of  $1.50,  and  each  had  a  cubby-hole  for 
a  home — a  mere  shell  of  wood  open  at  the  top.  The 
upper  floors  of  the  Freedom  Hotel  were  subdivided 
into  these  tiny  pens.  Here  the  tired  and  discouraged 
men  came  crawling  every  night.  From  these  boxes 
the  frowsy  and  unrestcd  men  emerged  every  morning. 

The  wreckage  on  an  ocean  beach  washes  together 
as  if  by  choice  and  the  wrecks  of  a  city  mobilise  of 
their  own  free  will.  The  man  who  is  down  must  find 
some  one  with  whom  he  can  rail  at  the  undeserving 
prosperous. 

The  Freedom  Hotel  sheltered  a  community  of 
equals,  all  worsted  in  the  fight,  some  living  on  the 
crumbs  of  a  happier  period,  some  abjectly  depending 
on  the  charity  of  friends  and  relatives,  and  some 
struggling  along  on  small  and  unreliable  pay. 

There  was  a  400-page  novel  in  every  life  there,  but 
[88] 


THE     JUDGE'S     SON 

the  condensed  stories  of  the  two  men  at  the  window 
must  suffice  for  the  present. 

The  older,  the  one  with  the  slouch  hat — son  of 
wealthy  merchant  in  Indiana  town — inherited  money 
— married — learned  to  gamble — took  up  with  Board 
of  Trade — wife  died — more  reckless  gambling — 
moved  to  Chicago — went  broke — Freedom  Hotel. 

The  younger,  with  black  hair  and  beard — son  of  a 
judge  in  Western  city — reared  with  great  care  by 
mother — sent  to  college — learned  to  drink — repeat 
edly  forgiven  by  father  through  the  intercession  of 
the  mother — mother  died — father  cast  son  from  home 
— son  in  Chicago,  employed  in  a  collection  agency — 
went  on  a  drunk — Freedom  Hotel. 

The  victim  of  gambling  did  most  of  the  talking. 

"They  can't  always  keep  me  down,  now,  you  can 
bet  on  that,"  he  said,  nervously  combing  his  goatee 
with  thumb  and  finger.  "I  wish  I  could  have  had 
about  ten  thousand  last  week.  I'd  have  shown  some  of 
these  fellows." 

"If  I  had  ten  thousand  I  wouldn't  chance  a  cent  of 
it,"  said  the  other,  his  eyes  twitching. 

"Well,  I'll  beat  the  game  yet,  you  see  if  I  don't.  I've 

got  three  or  four  fellows  in  this  town  to  get  even  with 

— fellows  that  I  spent  my  money  on  when  I  had  it ; 

fellows  that  could  come  to  me  and  get  fifty  or  a  hun- 

[89] 


THE     JUDGE' S     SON 

dred  just  for  the  askin'  of  it,  and  there  ain't  one  of 
'em  to-day  that'd  turn  over  his  finger  to  help  me — not 
one  of  'em.  That's  what  you  get  when  you're  down, 
young  man.  If  you  want  to  find  out  who  your  friends 
are,  just  wait  till  you  go  broke." 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  said  the  other.  With  a  shaky 
hand  he  took  the  last  cigarette  from  a  package. 

"I  was  thinkin'  when  I  turned  in  to  my  bunk  last 
night,  'Well,  this  is  a  devil  of  a  place  for  a  man  that 
had  a  room  at  the  Palmer  House,  when  it  was  the  talk 
of  the  whole  country.'  That  was  when  I  used  to  drive 
my  own  trotter  and  hire  a  man  to  take  care  of  him. 
When  I'd  come  to  Chicago,  the  hotel  clerks  used  to 
jump  over  the  counter  to  shake  hands  with  me.  If  I 
wanted  a  steak,  I  went  to  Billy  Boyle's  for  it.  If  I  was 
over  on  Clark  Street  and  wanted  a  game,  I  could  get 
a  private  roll.  It  was  'Phil'  here  and  'Phil'  there,  and 
nothin'  too  good  for  me.  Do  you  think  I  could  go  to 
any  one  o'  them  to-day  and  get  a  dollar  ?  A  dollar ! 
Not  a  cent — not  a  red  cent.  That's  what  you  get 
when  you're  in  hard  luck." 

"You  can't  tell  me  anything  about  it,"  said  the 
other,  in  a  restrained  voice,  for  his  lungs  were  filled 
with  cigarette-smoke,  which  he  was  breathing  slowly 
through  his  nostrils.  "Didn't  I  go  to  college  with 
fellows  that  live  right  here  in  this  town,  and  don't  they 
[90] 


THE     JUDGE'S     SON 

pass  me  on  the  street  every  day  or  two  without  recog 
nising  me?  Why,  when  I  think  that  I  came  of  a  fam 
ily  that — ah,  well,  it's  all  right.  Money  talks  here  in 
Chicago,  and  if  you  haven't  got  money  you're  little 
better  than  a  tramp." 

"Well,  I'll  have  it  again  and  I'll  make  some  of  these 
fellows  sorry  they  ever  threw  me  down.  I'll  make  'em 
sweat.  If  I  don't — "  and  he  ran  into  profanity. 

"Here's  a  telegram  for  you,"  said  some  one  at  his 
elbow. 

It  was  the  "clerk"  of  the  Freedom — a  short  man 
with  an  indented  nose,  who  wrent  about  in  his  shirt 
sleeves. 

"For  me?"  asked  the  speculator,  in  surprise. 

"That's  what  it  says  here — Philip  Sanderson.  It 
come  over  from  136." 

"That's  right." 

"I  signed  for  it." 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the  message. 
It  seemed  that  he  gazed  at  it  for  a  full  minute  without 
speaking  or  moving.  Then  he  arose  and  hurried  away. 
The  judge's  son  rubbed  his  eyes  and  felt  vainly  for 
another  cigarette. 

"Your  partner's  gone,"  said  the  clerk  that  evening. 

"Who — Sanderson?"  asked  the  judge's  son. 

"Yes,  this  afternoon.  He  didn't  have  much  packin' 
[91] 


THE     JUDGE'S     SON 

to  do.  What  do  you  think?  An  old  aunt  of  his  died 
down  in  Indiana  and  he  told  me  he'd  come  in  for  about 
five  thousand." 

"Well,  I'll  swear,"  said  the  judge's  son,  "and  he 
didn't  leave  any  word  ?" 

"Nope." 

A  week  later  the  judge's  son  was  walking  in  State 
Street. 

The  cold  north  wind  was  blowing. 

His  summer  derby  had  to  be  held  in  place.  The 
other  hand  was  deep  in  his  trousers'  pocket. 

His  old  sack-coat  was  tightly  buttoned  and  the  colr 
lar  was  turned  up.  The  judge's  son  seemed  to  be  limp 
ing  in  each  foot,  but  it  was  not  a  limp.  It  was  the 
slouch  of  utter  dejection. 

He  was  within  thirty  feet  of  the  main  entrance  to 
the  Palmer  House  when  he  saw  a  man  come  out. 

The  judge's  son  had  to  take  a  second  look,  to  be 
sure  of  his  own  senses.  Instead  of  the  old  and 
crumpled  slouch  there  was  a  new  broad-brimmed  felt 
hat  of  much  shapeliness.  The  winter  overcoat  was 
heavy  chinchilla,  with  a  velvet  collar.  Sanderson  was 
smoking  a  long  cigar.  He  had  been  shaved  recently. 
His  shoes  were  brightly  polished.  As  he  stood  back  in 
the  sheltered  doorway  he  worked  his  left  hand  into  a 
blood-red  glove. 

[92] 


THE    JUDGE'S     SON 

The  judge's  son  stood  some  fifteen  feet  away  and 
hesitated.  Then  he  slunk  to  the  shelter  of  a  column 
and  spoke  to  his  partner. 

"Well,  Sanderson,  they  seem  to  be  coming  pretty 
easy  for  you." 

Sanderson  looked  at  the  speaker,  squinting  through 
the  smoke. 

He  said  nothing.  His  hand  being  well  into  the 
glove,  he  fastened  the  clasp  at  the  wrist  with  a  springy 
snap.  With  a  satisfied  lick  he  turned  his  cigar  once 
over  in  his  mouth.  A  flake  of  ash  had  fallen  on  the 
chinchilla  coat.  He  brushed  it  off.  Then  he  pushed 
through  the  swinging  doors  and  went  back  into  the 
hotel. 


[93] 


HOUSE  IN  MERCEDES  STREET 


HOUSE  IN  MERCEDES  STREET 

I  am  one  of  a  large  family.  We  stand  in  a  row 
ulong  Mercedes  Street.  When  first  I  had  any  knowl 
edge  of  myself  I  was  a  mere  skeleton  frame-work  of 
scantling.  There  were  six  of  us,  just  alike,  and  we 
were  knee-deep  in  bright  yellow  lumber.  All  day  long 
the  workmen  crawled  over  our  ribs.  I  felt  the  rap-a- 
tap-tap  as  I  became  decently  clad  in  weather-boarding 
and  shingles.  They  shouldered  the  clean,  sweet- 
smelling  pine  through  every  gaping  door  and  win 
dow. 

At  last  I  was  a  completed  house  with  the  brass  knobs 
glittering  and  the  raw  wood  hidden  under  two  glossy 
colours  of  paint. 

The  shavings  and  litter  were  carried  away.     Tufts 
of  green  grass  began  to  show  in  the  trampled  front 
yard.     To  be  sure  I  had  a  sort  of  damp  feeling  in  my 
joints  and  was  still  untidy  with  the  sif tings  of  saw 
dust  and  the  splatterings  of  paint  and  plastering,  but 
I  had  the  pride  of  knowing  that  I  was  as  handsome 
as  any  other  house  in  Mercedes  Street. 
[97] 


HOUSE     IN     MERCEDES     S TRULY 


I  have  learned  by  eaves-dropping  that 
Street  is  supposed  to  be  a  shabby  and  un- 
thoroughf  are  and  that  our  sextette  is  not  in 
the  iaiJiinn  One  day  a  very  gay  little  house,  with 
scalloped  decorations  fastened  to  it,  came  along  Mer- 
Street  on  rollers  and  I  remember  it  was  very 
to  take  up  with  our  society  and  had  to  be 
dragged  a  few  feet  at  a  time.  Sometimes,  by  lifting 
myself  and  peeping,  I  can  see  the  bulky  shapes  of  large 
buildings  far  away.  They  are  behind  the  clouds  of 
•mnki  and  I  do  not  envy  them  their  largeness.  In  fact 
I  envy  no  other  house,  for  contentment  has  come  to 

For  a  time  I  was  inwardly  troubled.  The  first  blow 
to  my  pride  came  soon  after  the  painters  had  given 

A  man  and  a  woman  stopped  in  front  of  me  and 
stared  critically.  The  woman  said,  "Dear  me!"  in  a 
time  of  such  disappointment  that  I  felt  a  tremor  in 
every  rafter.  They  unlocked  the  front  door  and 
walked  through  the  rooms,  their  foot-falls  starting 
the  hollow  echoes,  and  the  woman  found  fault  with  me. 
The  man  said  they  would  have  to  take  me,  with  all  my 


Hie  two  were  childless  and  out  of  luck,  and  they 
to  regard  me  as  a  place  of  exile,  so  how  was 


HOUSE  IN  MERCEDES  STREET 

I  to  cheer  them  when  they  always  wore  a  frown  for 
me?  I  had  hoped  to  be  loved,  but  I  was  merely  toler 
ated.  Still,  I  was  rather  glad  they  came,  I  wffl  ad 
mit  that  it  felt  good  to  get  die  carpets  and  rugs  and 
shiny  furniture  and  looped  curtains,  for  a  house,  after 
being  well  furnished,  has  the  same  satisfaction  that  a 
man  has  after  he  has  dined  properly. 

The  inner  warmth  drove  away  the  fingering  drill 
and  damp,  and  it  was  certainly  pkasanter  to  glow  with 
lamps  than  to  stand  lonesomely  in  the  darkness. 

Yet  I  was  constantly  saddened  by  the  thought  that 
those  whom  I  held  and  sheltered  and  gathered  under 
my  warm  plastering,  even  as  a  ben  gathers  her  brood, 
did  not  think  well  of  me. 

The  woman  used  to  hare  an  occasional  caller,  to 
whom  she  would  apologise  for  my 
(think  of  it!),  and  she  would  say  that  the 
hood  was  unattractive.  I  wiQ  confess  that  I  was  ii 
nant.  Leaving  my  own  merits  out  of  the 
there  is  certainly  no  excuse  for  saying  evil  things  of 
Mercedes  Street.  The  men  work  for  their  money  and 
the  women  love  their  children.  And  such  children !  I 
have  seen  the  street  white  with  them  on  a  Sunday  even 
ing,  for  every  little  girl  had  a  white  dress  and  every 
boy  a  white  waist.  The  men  sat  in  the  open  air  ami 
smoked.  The  women  called  gayly  from  door-step  to 
[99] 


HOUSE  IN  MERCEDES  STREET 

door-step,  and  the  children  fluttered  everywhere  like 
sparrows.  It  has  seemed  to  me  on  such  a  night,  that 
I  would  rather  be  here  in  Mercedes  Street  than  any 
where  else. 

When  the  unhappy  couple  moved  out  one  day  in 
early  spring  I  did  not  care  so  much,  although  that 
night  I  had  to  stand  in  conspicuous  gloom  and  feel 
the  sweep  of  cold  draughts.  The  woman  said  she 
hoped  she  would  never  see  me  again,  but  the  man,  as  I 
believe,  did  not  feel  so  unkindly  toward  me.  The 
waggons  disappeared  down  the  street,  but  wherever 
they  stopped,  I  don't  believe  that  house  will  be  a  home 
for  the  man. 

After  my  first  family  went  away  there  followed  a 
cheerless  month.  Company  is  company,  even  though 
it  offend  you.  I  had  the  feeling  of  being  neglected 
when  I  saw  the  smoke  curl  from  other  chimneys  and 
heard  the  children  shouting  at  the  houses  across  the 
way. 

But  one  day — and  I  must  always  call  it  the  best  of 
days — a  pudgy,  red-faced  little  man  stopped  squarely 
in  front  of  me  and  said,  "Oho !" 

I  think  all  of  my  front  panes  must  have  crinkled 
back  a  smile  at  him,  for  I  liked  this  little  man. 

Then  there  came  into  view  a  plump  woman  with  two 
red  spots  on  her  cheeks  and  a  little  boy  who  had  his 
[100] 


HOUSE    IN     MER'CE'D^E'S    S'T  RJE  E  T 

mother's  cheeks  and  his  father's  wrinkly  eyes,  and 
two  very  small  girls  with  braided  hair,  who  hopped 
and  skipped  like  springy  little  frogs. 

"Is  it  the  place,  Henry?"  asked  the  woman. 

"Yes — see,"  he  replied,  pointing  to  my  number. 

"Isn't  it  fine  ?    All  this  nice  grass  in  front." 

"But  behind!"  exclaimed  Henry.  "Ah,  behind— 
for  a  garden — big — plenty  of  room  !" 

"Is  this  where  we're  going  to  live?"  shouted  the 
boy,  dancing  on  the  front  stoop. 

"Maybe — yes,"  replied  the  father,  laughing.  Then 
the  boy  laughed  and  the  mother  laughed  and  the  two 
little  girls  laughed,  and  for  the  first  time  I  wanted  to 
laugh  too,  although  it  was  utterly  preposterous  for 
a  house  to  expect  to  laugh. 

That  day,  within  the  hour,  my  self-respect  came 
back  and  I  fear  I  was  almost  as  vain  as  I  was  on  the 
day  when  the  painters  got  through  with  me. 

The  laughing  family  said  my  rooms  were  the  pret 
tiest  in  the  world,  my  closets  the  snuggest  and  my 
kitchen  the  tidiest.  So  I  knew  they  were  coming  back, 
and  they  did  come,  with  some  of  the  queerest  bales  and 
chests  and  bundles  that  I  had  ever  seen  on  a  waggon 
in  Mercedes  Street.  The  furniture  was  new,  but  the 
bales  and  chests  and  bundles  had  come  from  the  old 
country,  and,  being  unpacked,  they  brought  forth 
[101] 


HOUSE     IN     MERCEDES     STREET 

strange  dishes,  cutlery,  pictures,  clothing,  bedding 
and  the  like,  all  cumbersome  and  showing  service,  but 
mightily  home-like. 

Once  more  I  felt  my  rafters  warmed,  and  once  more 
the  light  from  my  windows  fell  across  the  sidewalk 
where  the  young  women  and  their  sweethearts  prome 
naded  slowly  each  pleasant  evening  and  held  hands 
secretively. 

The  new  family  loved  me !  So,  of  course,  I  had  to 
love  the  new  family,  because  a  real  home  always  tries 
to  multiply  the  affection  brought  into  it. 

Summer  was  coming.  Now  the  open  windows  were 
filled  with  plants,  and  the  grass  spread  over  the  front- 
yard,  covering  the  bare  spots.  The  whole  family  went 
gardening  in  the  back-yard,  and  there  was  such  shout 
ing  and  laughing  at  work  that  all  the  work  was  like 
play. 

I  came  to  know  the  family  secrets.  In  the  old  coun 
try  the  little  man  had  been  poor  and  the  family  lived 
in  two  rooms,  and  did  not  have  meat  oftener  than  once 
a  week.  They  would  tell  of  the  old  country  sometimes, 
and  when  they  sat  down  to  eat  the  wife  would  say: 
"Oh,  Henry,  in  the  old  country  this  would  be  a  holiday 
feast." 

What  a  stroke  of  fortune  to  be  found  by  these  peo 
ple,  who  could  delight  in  having  a  house  of  their  own, 
[102] 


HOUSE     IN     MERCEDES     STREET 

with  a  garden  at  the  back  and  the  vines  beginning  to 
climb  in  front ! 

No  wonder  I  was  proud.  They  said  the  best  things 
about  me,  and  wrote  about  me  to  their  friends  in  the 
old  country,  and  they  even  had  me  photographed. 
That  day  I  squared  up  and  looked  my  best,  for  I 
could  not  remember  that  any  other  house  in  Mercedes 
Street  had  been  photographed. 

Through  fall  and  winter  they  kept  me  warmed 
with  their  simple  goodness,  and  I  was  so  grateful  that 
on  windy  nights  I  would  soothe  the  children  to  sleep. 
When  the  wind  whistled  at  my  eaves  I  would  change 
the  whistle  to  a  crooning  sound,  which  none  but  the 
children  could  understand,  and  which  is  never  heard 
except  where  there  are  children  to  listen. 

The  three  would  lie  in  their  beds  and  listen  to  the 
droning  lullaby,  and  soon  all  three  would  go  to  sleep 
smiling.  They  thought  it  was  the  wind  singing  to 
them,  but  I  did  my  part,  for  I  am  sure  the  song  did 
not  sound  the  same  at  any  other  house  in  Mercedes 
Street. 

Spring  and  summer  came  again.  The  vines  hung 
in  showers  of  green  around  the  front  windows  and 
the  children  sang  in  the  street. 

One  morning  I  drowsed  in  greater  happiness  than 
[103] 


HOUSE     IN     MERCEDES     STREET 

usual,  for  now  there  were  four  children  instead  of 
three. 

Such  bantering  as  they  had !  He  said  it  was  his  am" 
she  said  it  was  hers,  and  I  longed  to  speak  up  and  say 
it  was  mine  also. 

It  is  winter  now.  The  fourth  one  sits  strapped  at 
the  window  and  laughs  at  the  children  outside. 

I  believe  I  am  the  proudest  house  in  Mercedes  Street. 


[104] 


HICKEY    BOY    AND    THE    GRIP 


HICKEY    BOY    AND    THE    GRIP 

"Me  with  bunches  of  the  grip,"  said  the  Hickey  boy. 
"Me  the  livin'  drug-store." 

"But  you  have  recovered  sufficiently  to  smoke  a 
cigarette." 

"Gee !  I  need  my  student's  lamp  now  and  then,  no 
matter  how  rocky  I'm  feelin',  but  it  did  look  for  a 
while  as  if  I'd  have  to  chop  on  these  little  paper  things 
for  fair.  They  had  me  in  the  feathers  with  many 
brands  of  dope  shot  into  me." 

"You  were  taken  down  on  Tuesday,  I  believe." 

"I  was  taken  down  and  up  and  side  couples  cross 
over.  I  got  it  everywheres  at  the  same  minute.  The 
gong  sounded  Monday  afternoon.  I  shook  hands  with 
one  of  them  microbe  boys  and  then  it  was  us  mixin' 
it  and  I've  been  against  the  ropes  ever  since.  Say,  do 
you  stand  for  that  talk  about  some  eight-legged  little 
dingus  gettin'  into  you  and  makin'  all  this  grip?  I 
see  a  piece  about  it  in  the  Sunday  paper  with  a  picture 
of  something  that  looked  like  a  soft-shell  crab — a  kind 
of  a  nervous  crab,  reachin'  in  all  directions.  When 
[107] 


HICKEY    BOY    AND    THE    GRIP 

I  went  in  to  see  Doc  Tuesday  morning,  I  says,  'Doc, 
have  I  got  any  of  them  boys  travellin'  beat  in  my  sys 
tem?'  he  says  to  me,  'You've  probably  got  a  million 
of  'em  rummagin'  around  inside  of  you  this  minute !' 
'Well,'  I  says,  'if  that's  the  case,  pick  out  the  trimmins'. 
What  chance  have  I  got  against  a  million  o'  them  fel 
lows?  They'll  have  me  gnawed  out  inside  till  I'm 
hollow  as  a  drum.'  Doc  says,  'I'm  goin'  to  kill  'em.' 
'Well,'  I  says,  'you  call  'em  outside  before  you  kill 
'em.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  walkin'  morgue,  with  a  mill 
ion  o'  them  grip  umptaloriums  laid  out  inside  o'  me.' 
Not  on  your  leaf-lards.  What  is  it  you  call  'em?" 

"Germs." 

"That's  the  name !  I  ought  to  remember  that.  All 
you've  got  to  do  is  think  of  Germans.  Doc  give  me  a 
grand  little  talk  about  them  germs.  He  was  handin' 
me  words  that  nobody  ever  heard  before.  He  earned 
his  dollar  all  right.  You  ought  to  have  heard  him 
givin'  it  to  me  about  the  mucous  mcmbranus  and  the 
brtmcho  bazazas  gettin'  their  wires  crossed  with  the 
wollyollopis  down  in  the  gazalium.  Ooh  !  Poor  talk ! 
Poor  talk !  When  he  got  through  tellin'  me  what  I 
had  and  spread  me  from  the  case  note,  my  only  hope 
then  was  to  get  home  before  I  croaked.  I  didn't  want 
to  fall  over  in  the  street  and  make  trouble  for  any 
strangers.  You  ought  to  seen  me.  The  lamps  all 
[108] 


HICKEY    BOY    AND     THE     GRIP 

red  an'  a  tongue  that  felt  like  a  rug.  I'm  livin'  at  my 
sister's  house,  an'  her,  you  know,  wiser'n  any  doctor. 
Oh,  easy !  Out  in  the  kitchen,  cookin'  up  stuff  for  me. 
When  she  brought  it  in  I  looked  it  over  an'  says :  'No, 
not  unless  you  hurry  it  into  me  when  I'm  asleep.'  She 
says :  'You  don't  eat  this.  This  is  a  poultice  for  your 
chest.'  So  me  up  against  this  stuff  an'  hollerin'  plenty. 
I  thought  it  was  all  off.  'Here,'  I  says,  'from  now  on 
we  scratch  the  home  doctorin'.  I'll  take  the  stuff  that 
Doc  give  me  an'  let  it  go  at  that.'  Could  I  stop  her? 
Not  for  a  minute.  Think  o'  the  handicap,  too.  Me 
laid  out  on  the  sofa  an'  her  sneakin'  on  me  every  little 
while  to  get  somethin'  into  me  before  I  had  a  chance  to 
make  a  fight.  If  I'd  took  all  the  stuff  she  fixed  up 
for  me — say,  me  feet  first  with  three  on  a  side !  Easy. 
I  had  to  talk  right  to  her  to  keep  her  away,  too.  I 
says:  'I  don't  want  to  start  nothin'  in  the  Hickey 
family,  but  if  you  try  to  shoot  any  more  poison  into 
me  I  can  see  myself  swingin'  on  you.'  She  says : 
'Now,  I'm  tellin'  you,  this'll  do  you  good.'  'You  give 
it  to  your  husband,'  I  says.  'You  don't  know  but 
wlint  them  microbes  live  on  this  stuff  you've  fixed  up 
here,'  I  says.  'I'm  after  'em  with  Doc  in  my  corner, 
and  if  you  don't  keep  out  o'  the  ring  I  may  forget  that 
you're  my  sister.'  Well,  that  held  her  for  a  while." 
"Did  you  have  it  bad?" 

[1091 


HICKEY    BOY    AND    THE    GRIP 

"I  had  it  worse'n  that.  Monday  afternoon  I  felt 
like  I'd  been  run  over  by  an  ice-wagon  three  or  four 
times.  All  the  insides  o'  me  wuz  lumpy.  I  could'a' 
swore  I'd  swallowed  a  couple  o'  dumbbells  and  they'd 
settled  in  my  back,  an'  the  head  was  a  lily.  No  eyes 
at  all.  Just  a  couple  o'  poached  eggs,  that's  all.  Me 
settin'  around  on  my  shoulder-blades  lookin'  like  one  o' 
these  bamboo  boys  full  o'  hop.  I  couldn't  see  a  thing 
to  it.  Monday  night  it  was  all  in-fightin'  with  the 
blanket  an'  dodgin'  things  that  come  up  over  the  foot 
board.  I'd  get  up  and  try  to  cool  the  block  with  a 
wet  towel,  an'  then  you'd  see  the  steam  comin'  off  of 
me.  Then  I'd  fall  over  on  the  mattress  an'  ride  in  the 
merry-go-round  for  a  while.  I  figured  that  I  was 
booked  for  the  crazy-house  or  the  bone-orchard,  I 
couldn't  tell  which.  It  was  Tuesday  mornin'  that  I  see 
Doc  an'  he  said  nothin'  ailed  me  except  I  had  a  zoo 
runnin'  around  inside  o'  me,  so  I  bought  everything 
they  could  spare  at  the  corner  drug  store  an'  come 
home  to  set  a  few  traps  for  these  eight-legged  fiends 
that  had  moved  in  on  me.  It  was  one  kind  every  two 
hours  and  another  every  three  hours  an'  then  a  few  at 
night  and  a  nice  red-pepper  plaster  that'd  help  some. 
I  don't  think  I  was  right  in  my  nut  from  the  minute 
I  starts  to  go  against  all  these  allypozzacks  in  the  blue 
boxerinos." 

[110] 


HICKEY     BOY     AND     THE     GRIT 

"I  see — they  gave  you  a  sort  of  ringing  in  the 
ears." 

"Oh — ow!  I  heard  the  fire-bells  all  night.  Doc 
must  have  slipped  me  a  few  knock-out  drops.  They 
had  me  all  covered  up  so  as  to  sweat  it  out,  they  said. 
I  didn't  see  how  they  could  sweat  out  any  o'  these 
things  that's  got  claws  like  a  lobster.  I  must  'a'  re 
duced  seventeen  pounds  trying  to  make  it  too  hot  for 
them  germs.  When  I  did  get  to  sleep  I  had  a  dream 
that  was  all  right.  It  was  a  fine  little  dream  an'  it 
landed  me  cross-ways  of  the  bed,  tryin'  to  bite  a  hole 
in  the  pillow.  Now  listen  !  Here's  the  kind  of  a  dream 
you  have  when  the  quinine  an'  the  germs  get  together. 
Me  a  walkin'  down  the  street,  when  I  comes  to  one  o' 
these  gangs  repairin'  this  block  pavin,'  understand? 
You've  seen  'em  where  they  put  down  them  blocks  and 
push  the  gravel  in  between  an'  then  pour  this  hot  tar 
over  the  whole  thing.  There  was  a  copper  standin' 
on  the  corner  watchin'  the  gang  work,  an'  when  they 
see  me  everybody  hollers  an'  comes  at  me  on  the  run. 
I  didn't  know  what  was  doin',  but  I  put  up  a  swell  race 
for  about  seven  miles,  then  me  in  the  gravel  an'  about 
fourteen  on  top.  Well,  what  do  you  think  they  done? 
This  is  just  to  show  where  the  stuff  put  me.  They 
drags  me  back  an'  chucks  me  into  Mr.  Big-iron-thing 
that  they  melt  the  tar  in.  Hot?  Holy  sufferin'  mack- 

[in] 


HICKEY     BOY     AND     THE     GRIP 

ercl !  Me  pushin'  up  the  lid,  you  know,  an'  putting 
out  the  coco  to  get  a  little  fresh  air,  an'  the  copper 
giving  me  an  awful  belt  across  the  head  every  time 
an'  sayin',  'G'wan,  get  back  in  there !'  I'd  duck  back 
in  and  do  my  two  or  three  minutes  settin'  up  to  my 
neck  in  this  stuff,  boilin'  hot — understand?  an'  then 
up  with  the  lid  and  take  another  wallop.  Oh,  I  was 
havin'  a  lovely  time.  I  guess  I  must  have  hollered, 
bccuz  the  first  thing  I  remember  was  the  sister  wras'lin' 
with  me  an'  tcllin'  me  to  lay  down  an'  keep  quiet.  I 
made  a  couple  o'  passes  at  her  an'  told  her  to  give  me  a 
gallon  o'  water.  She  says :  'You  seem  to  be  a  little 
feverish.*  'Oh,  I  don't  know,'  I  says,  all  the  time 
tryin'  to  crawl  up  on  top  o'  the  head-board.  Oh,  me 
up  in  the  air!  Say,  if  that's  what  them  little  grip 
things  does  to  you,  I'm  glad  they  don't  grow  the  size 
o'  rabbits." 


THE     SET     OF     POE 


THE    SET    OF    POE 

Mr.  Waterby  remarked  to  his  wife:  "I'm  still 
tempted  by  that  set  of  Poe.  I  saw  it  in  the  window 
to-day,  marked  down  to  fifteen  dollars." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Waterby,  with  a  sudden  gasp  of 
emotion,  it  seemed  to  him. 

"Yes— I  believe  I'll  have  to  get  it." 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,  Alfred,"  she  said.  "You 
have  so  many  books  now." 

"I  know  I  have,  my  dear,  but  I  haven't  any  set  of 
Poe,  and  that's  what  I've  been  wanting  for  a  long  time. 
This  edition  I  was  telling  you  about  is  beautifully 
gotten  up." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  buy  it,  Alfred,"  she  repeated,  and 
there  was  a  note  of  pleading  earnestness  in  her  voice. 
"It's  so  much  money  to  spend  for  a  few  books." 

"Well,  I  know,  but—  "  and  then  he  paused,  for  the 
lack  of  words  to  express  his  mortified  surprise. 

Mr.  Waterby  had  tried  to  be  an  indulgent  husband. 

He  took  a  selfish  pleasure  in  giving,  and  found  it  more 

blessed  than  receiving.     Every  salary  day  he  turned 

over   to   Mrs.    Waterby   a   fixed   sum   for   household 

[115] 


THE     SET     OF     POE 

expenses.  He  added  to  this  an  allowance  for  her 
spending  money.  He  set  aside  a  small  amount  for  his 
personal  expenses  and  deposited  the  remainder  in  the 
bank. 

He  flattered  himself  that  he  approximated  the 
model  husband. 

Mr.  Waterby  had  no  costly  habits  and  no  prevail 
ing  appetite  for  anything  expensive.  Like  every 
other  man,  he  had  one  or  two  hobbies,  and  one  of  his 
particular  hobbies  was  Edgar  Allan  Poc.  He  believed 
that  Poe,  of  all  American  writers,  was  the  one  unmis 
takable  "genius." 

The  word  "genius"  has  been  bandied  around  the 
country  until  it  has  come  to  be  applied  to  a  long 
haired  man  out  of  work  or  a  stout  lady  who  writes 
poetry  for  the  rural  press.  In  the  case  of  Poe,  Mr. 
Waterby  maintained  that  "genius"  meant  one  who 
was  not  governed  by  the  common  mental  processes, 
but  "who  spoke  from  inspiration,  his  mind  involun 
tarily  taking  superhuman  flight  into  the  realm  of  pure 
imagination,"  or  something  of  that  sort.  At  any  rate, 
Mr.  Waterby  liked  Poe  and  he  wanted  a  set  of  Poe. 
He  allowed  himself  not  more  than  one  luxury  a  year, 
and  he  determined  that  this  year  the  luxury  should  be 
a  set  of  Poe. 

Therefore,  imagine  the  hurt  to  his  feelings  when  his 
[116] 


THE     SET     OF     POE 

wife  objected  to  his  expending  fifteen  dollars  for  that 
which  he  coveted  above  anything  else  in  the  world. 

As  he  went  to  his  work  that  day  he  reflected  on  Mrs. 
Waterby's  conduct.  Did  she  not  have  her  allowance 
of  spending  money?  Did  he  ever  find  fault  with  her 
extravagance?  Was  he  an  unreasonable  husband  in 
asking  that  he  be  allowed  to  spend  this  small  sum  for 
that  which  would  give  him  many  hours  of  pleasure, 
and  which  would  belong  to  Mrs.  Waterby  as  much  as 
to  him? 

He  told  himself  that  many  a  husband  vrould  have 
bought  the  books  without  consulting  his  wife.  But 
he  (Waterby)  had  deferred  to  his  wife  in  all  matters 
touching  family  finances,  and  he  said  to  himself,  with 
a  tincture  of  bitterness  in  his  thoughts,  that  probably 
he  had  put  himself  into  the  attitude  of  a  mere  de 
pendent. 

For  had  she  not  forbidden  him  to  buy  a  few  books 
for  himself?  Well,  no,  she  had  not  forbidden  him, 
but  it  amounted  to  the  same  thing.  She  had  declared 
that  she  was  firmly  opposed  to  the  purchase  of  Poe. 

Mr.  Waterby  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  he 
was  just  beginning  to  know  his  wife.  Was  she  a 
selfish  woman  at  heart?  Was  she  complacent  and 
good-natured  and  kind  only  while  she  was  having  her 
own  way?  Wouldn't  she  prove  to  be  an  entirely  dif- 
[117] 


THE     SET     OF     POE 

f  erent  sort  of  woman  if  he  should  do  as  many  husbands 
do — spend  his  income  on  clubs  and  cigars  and  private 
amusement,  and  gave  her  the  pickings  of  small 
change  ? 

Nothing  in  Mr.  Waterby's  whole  experience  as  a 
married  man  had  so  wrenched  his  sensibilities  and  dis 
turbed  his  faith  as  Mrs.  Waterby's  objection  to  the 
purchase  of  the  set  of  Poe.  There  was  but  one  way 
to  account  for  it.  She  wanted  all  the  money  for  her 
self,  or  else  she  wanted  him  to  put  it  into  the  bank 
so  that  she  could  come  into  it  after  he — but  this  was 
too  monstrous. 

However,  Mrs.  Waterby's  conduct  helped  to  give 
strength  to  Mr.  Waterby's  meanest  suspicions. 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  first  conversation  she 
asked:  "You  didn't  buy  that  set  of  Poe,  did  you, 
Alfred?" 

"No,  I  didn't  buy  it,"  he  answered,  as  coldly  and 
with  as  much  hauteur  as  possible. 

He  hoped  to  hear  her  say :  "Well,  why  don't  you 
go  and  get  it  ?  I'm  sure  that  you  want  it,  and  I'd  like 
to  see  you  buy  something  for  yourself  once  in  a  while.' 

That  would  have  shown  the  spirit  of  a  loving  and 
unselfish  wife. 

But  she  merely  said,  "That's  right;  don't  buy  it," 

and  he  was  utterly  unhappy,  for  he  realised  that  he 

[118] 


THE    SET     OF     POE 

had  married  a  woman  who  did  not  love  him  and  who 
simply  desired  to  use  him  as  a  pack-horse  for  all  house 
hold  burdens. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Waterby  had  learned  the  horrible 
truth  about  his  wife  he  began  to  recall  little  episodes 
dating  back  years,  and  now  he  pieced  them  together 
to  convince  himself  that  he  was  a  deeply  wronged  per 
son. 

Small  at  the  time  and  almost  unnoticed,  they  now 
accumulated  to  prove  that  Mrs.  Waterby  had  no  real 
anxiety  for  her  husband's  happiness.  Also,  Mr. 
Waterby  began  to  observe  her  more  closely,  and  he 
believed  that  he  found  new  evidences  of  her  unworthi- 
ness.  For  one  thing,  while  he  was  in  gloom  over  his 
discovery  and  harassed  by  doubts  of  what  the  future 
might  reveal  to  him,  she  was  content  and  even- 
tempered. 

The  holiday  season  approached  and  Mr.  Waterby 
made  a  resolution.  He  decided  that  if  she  would  not 
permit  him  to  spend  a  little  money  on  himself  he 
would  not  buy  the  customary  Christmas  present  for 
her. 

"Selfishness  is  a  game  at  which  two  can  play,"  he 
said. 

Furthermore,  he  determined  that  if  she  asked  him 
for  any  extra  money  for  Christmas  he  would  say: 
[119] 


THE     SET     OF     POE 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,  but  I  can't  spare  any.  I  am  so 
hard  up  that  I  can't  even  afford  to  buy  a  few  books 
I've  been  wanting  a  long  time.  Don't  you  remem 
ber  that  you  told  me  that  I  couldn't  afford  to  buy  that 
set  of  Foe?" 

Could  anything  be  more  biting  as  to  sarcasm  or 
more  crushing  as  to  logic? 

He  rehearsed  this  speech  and  had  it  all  ready  for 
her,  and  he  pictured  to  himself  her  humiliation  and 
surprise  at  discovering  that  he  had  some  spirit  after 
all  and  a  considerable  say-so  whenever  money  was  in 
volved. 

Unfortunately  for  his  plan,  she  did  not  ask  for  any 
extra  spending  money,  and  so  he  had  to  rely  on  the 
other  mode  of  punishment.  He  would  withhold  the 
expected  Christmas  present.  In  order  that  she  might 
fully  understand  his  purpose,  he  would  give  presents 
to  both  of  the  children. 

It  was  a  harsh  measure,  he  admitted,  but  perhaps 
it  would  teach  her  to  have  some  consideration  for  the 
wishes  of  others. 

It  must  be  said  that  Mr.  Waterby  was  not  wholly 
proud  of  his  revenge  when  he  arose  on  Christmas  morn 
ing.  He  felt  that  he  had  accomplished  his  purpose, 
and  he  told  himself  that  his  motives  had  been  good  and 
pure,  but  still  lie  was  not  satisfied  with  himself. 
[120] 


THE    SET    OF    POE 

He  went  to  the  dining-room,  and  there  on  the  table 
in  front  of  his  plate  was  a  long  paper  box,  containing 
ten  books,  each  marked  "Poe."  It  was  the  edition  he 
had  coveted. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked,  winking  slowly,  for  his 
mind  could  not  grasp  in  one  moment  the  fact  of  his 
awful  shame. 

"I  should  think  you  ought  to  know,  Alfred,"  said 
Mrs.  Waterby,  flushed,  and  giggling  like  a  school 
girl. 

"Oh,  it  was  you " 

"My  goodness,  you've  had  me  so  frightened  !  That 
first  day,  when  you  spoke  of  buying  them  and  I  told 
you  not  to,  I  was  just  sure  that  you  suspected  some 
thing.  I  bought  them  a  week  before  that." 

"Yes — yes,"  said  Mr.  Waterby,  feeling  the  salt 
water  in  his  eyes.  At  that  moment  he  had  the  soul  of 
a  wretch  being  whipped  at  the  stake. 

"I  was  determined  not  to  ask  you  for  any  money 
to  pay  for  your  own  presents,"  Mrs.  Waterby  con 
tinued.  "Do  you  know  I  had  to  save  for  you  and 
the  children  out  of  my  regular  allowance.  Why,  last 
week  I  nearly  starved  you,  and  you  never  noticed  it  at 
all.  I  was  afraid  you  would." 

"No,    I — didn't    notice    it,"    said    Mr.    Waterby, 
brokenly,  for  he  was  confused  and  giddy. 
[121] 


THE     SET     OF     POE 

This  self-sacrificing  angel — and  he  had  bought  no 
Christmas  present  for  her! 

It  was  a  fearful  situation,  and  he  lied  his  way  out 
of  it. 

"How  did  you  like  your  present?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  I  haven't  seen  it  yet,"  she  said,  looking 
across  at  him  in  surprise. 

"You  haven't?  I  told  them  to  send  it  up  yester 
day." 

The  children  were  shouting  and  laughing  over  their 
gifts  in  the  next  room,  and  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  lie 
for  their  sake. 

"Well,  don't  tell  me  what  it  is,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Waterby.  "Wait  until  it  comes." 

"I'll  go  after  it," 

He  did  go  after  it,  although  he  had  to  drag  a 
jeweller  away  from  his  home  on  Christmas-day  and 
have  him  open  his  great  safe.  The  ring  which  he  se 
lected  was  beyond  his  means,  it  is  true,  but  when  a  man 
has  to  buy  back  his  self-respect,  the  price  is  never  too 
high. 


DUBLEY,     '89 


DUBLEY,     '89 

Mr.  Dubley,  '89,  was  flattered  to  receive  an  invita 
tion  to  attend  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Beverly  alumni 
and  respond  to  the  toast,  "College  Days."  Mr.  Dub- 
ley,  class  of  '89,  in  his  days  pointed  out  as  a  real  orna 
ment  to  the  campus,  had  allowed  his  interest  in  college 
matters  to  ooze  away  from  him.  He  had  been  in 
Chicago  three  years  and  had  not  attended  an  annual 
dinner,  but  now,  being  invited  to  speak,  he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  step  in  and  accept  the  honour. 

See  Mr.  Dubley  in  his  room  at  night — writing, 
writing.  He  was  writing  about  "College  Days" — but 
he  erased  much  more  than  he  wrote.  When  he  had 
completed  a  sentence  he  would  read  it  aloud  to  make 
sure  that  it  had  the  swing  and  cadence  so  pleasing  to 
the  ear. 

One  week  before  the  dinner  and  Mr.  Dubley's 
speech  regarding  "College  Days"  was  a  finished  thing. 
It  had  been  typewritten,  with  broad  spaces,  and  there 
were  parenthetical  reminders  such  as:  (Pause),  (full 
breath),  (gesture  with  right  hand),  etc.  Mr.  Dubley 
had  witnessed  the  pitiable  flunks  resulting  from  a  state 
of  unpreparedness,  and  he  was  not  going  to  rely  upon 
[125] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

momentary  inspiration.  He  was  going  to  rehearse 
every  part  of  his  speech,  and  when  he  arose  to  respond 
to  the  toast  "College  Days"  that  speech  would  be  a 
part  of  his  mental  fibre. 

If  Mr.  Dubley  talked  mutteringly  as  he  hid  behind 
his  newspaper  on  the  elevated  train  or  made  strange 
gestures  as  he  hurried  along  Dearborn  Street,  it  was  not 
to  be  inferred  that  Mr.  Dubley  had  lost  his  mind.  He 
was  practising — that  is  all. 

The  speech: 

"Mr.  President  and  Gentlemen:  The  toastmaster 
has  told  you  that  I  am  to  speak  of  'College  Days,'  a 
subject  that  must  arouse  the  tenderest  and  sweetest 
memories  in  the  bosom  of  every  one  here.  When  I 
look  about  me  and  see  all  these  faces  beaming  with 
good-fellowship  and  fraternal  love,  I  realise  that  there 
are  no  ties  as  lasting  as  those  that  we  form  in  the 
bright  days  of  our  youth,  within  the  college  halls. 
No  matter  what  experiences  may  befall  us  after  we 
have  gone  out  into  the  world,  we  can  always  look  back 
with  pleasure  on  the  days  that  we  spent  in  college. 

"  '  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  mil  cling  'round  it  still.' 

"I  sometimes  think  that  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of 
business  life,  here  in  this  great  metropolis,  we  make  a 
[126] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

serious  mistake  in  neglecting  to  keep  up  the  friend 
ships  formed  in  college.  I  tell  you,  fellow-alumni,  we 
ought  to  extend  a  helping  hand  to  every  man  who 
comes  to  this  city  from  old  Beverly.  Let  us  keep  alive 
the  holy  torch  ignited  at  the  altar  of  youthful  loyalty. 

"The  enthusiasm  manifested  here  this  evening 
proves  that  you  indorse  what  I  have  just  said.  I  know 
that  your  hearts  beat  true  to  our  dear  alma  mater; 
that  other  institutions,  larger  and  more  pretentious, 
perhaps,  can  never  hold  the  same  place  in  your  affec 
tions. 

"Oh,  that  we  might  again  gather  on  the  campus 
in  the  same  company  that  was  once  so  dear  to  us,  there 
to  sing  the  old  college  songs,  to  feel  the  hand-clasp 
of  our  college  mates,  and  listen  to  the  sweet  chiming 
of  the  chapel  bell.  These  are  memories  to  be  treas 
ured.  In  the  years  +o  come  we  shall  find  that  they  are 
the  brightest  pages  in  life's  history. 

"Gentlemen,  I  have  no  wish  to  tire  you.  There  are 
other  speakers  to  follow  me.  In  conclusion  I  merely 
v  *«h  to  relate  a  little  anecdote  which  is  suggested  to 
me  by  the  opening  remarks  of  our  worthy  toastmaster. 
It  seems  there  was  an  Irishman  who  had  been  in  this 
country  but  a  few  days,  and  he  was  looking  for  work, 
so  he  said  to  himself  one  morning :  'Begob,  Oi  think 
Oi'll  go  down  be  the  dock  to  see  if  I  can't  be  afther 
[127] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

gcttin'  a  job  unloadin'  a  ship.'  So  he  went  down  to 
the  dock,  but  couldn't  get  any  work.  While  he  was 
standing  there  looking  down  into  the  water,  a  man 
in  a  diving-suit  came  up  through  the  waves  and  climbed 
up  on  the  dock.  Pat  looked  at  him  in  great  surprise 
and  said :  'Begob,  if  Oi'd  known  where  to  get  a  suit 
loike  that,  I'd  have  walked  over  mesilf.'  ' 

During  the  gale  of  laughter  which  was  to  follow 
this  story,  Mr.  Dubley  would  sit  down. 

Now,  in  order  that  he  might  not  become  confused 
as  to  the  order  of  his  paragraphs  and  to  guard  against 
the  remote  possibility  of  his  forgetting  some  part  of 
the  address,  Mr.  Dubley  had  the  opening  words  of 
each  paragraph  jotted  down  on  a  card,  to  which  he 
might  refer  if  necessary  : 

The  president  has  told,  etc. 

I  sometimes  think,  etc. 

The  enthusiasm  manifested,  etc. 

Oh,  that  we  might,  etc. 

Gentlemen,  I  have  no  wish,  etc. 

The  annual  dinner  of  the  Beverly  alumni  was  an  un 
qualified  success. 

Three  tables  were  filled.  Two  of  these  were  long 
tables  joining  a  short  transverse  table,  at  which  sat 
the  chairman  and  the  speakers.  Dubley,  '89,  was  at 
this  head  table. 

[128] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

Dinner  eame  on  with  a  great  clatter.  The  mandolin 
orchestra  played  "coon"  songs  and  the  young  men 
bellowed  the  choruses.  An  ex-star  of  the  football 
team  was  carried  thrice  round  the  table  on  the  billow 
ing  shoulders  of  his  friends,  who  chanted  and  rah- 
rahed  and  stepped  high. 

Mr.  Dubley,  '89,  who  was  dieting  and  abstaining, 
in  order  that  he  might  be  in  good  voice  and  have  pos 
session  of  his  faculties  when  the  critical  moment  came, 
began  to  suspect  that  the  assemblage  was  in  no  mood 
to  give  serious  attention  to  the  memories  of  college 
days.  His  fellow-alumni  sat  low  in  their  chairs,  with 
their  white  fronts  very  convex,  and  pounded  the  tables 
rhythmically,  causing  the  small  coffee-cups  to  jump 
and  jingle. 

Cigars  succeeded  cigarettes.  A  blue  fog  obscured 
the  far  end  of  the  double  perspective  of  long  tables, 
and  the  hurrah  was  unabated. 

The  chairman  pounded  on  the  table. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  shouted,  "to  see  such  a  large  and 
disorderly  mob  here  this  evening.  (Cheers.)  I  under 
stand  that  Mr.  Dubley  of  the  class  of  '89  has  some 
thing  to  say  to  you,  and  I  will  now  call  on  him." 

And  Mr.  Dubley  arose.  The  clamorous  applause 
helped  to  encourage  him.  He  took  a  drink  of  water. 

A  voice ;    "What  is  the  gentleman's  name,  please  ?" 
[129] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

The  chairman:  "Dubley — this  is  Mr.  Dubley  of 
the  class  of  '89." 

A  voice:  "Never  heard  of  him  before."  (Laugh 
ter.) 

Dubley :    "Mr.  President  and  gentlemen." 

A  voice :     "  'Mr.  President  and  gentlemen'  ?" 

Another  voice:     "Yes — why  this  distinction?" 

Dubley  (Smiling  feebly)  :  "Of  course — you  un 
derstand — when  I  say  'Mr.  President  and  gentlemen' 
I  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that  the  president  is  not  a 
gentleman.  I  think  he  is  a  gentleman." 

A  voice :     "You  think  he  is  ?" 

Dubley :  "The  toastmaster  has  told  you  that  I  am 
to  speak  of  'College  Days'." 

A  voice :     "I  didn't  hear  him." 

Dubley:  "Well,  he — ah — should  have  announced 
that  as  the  subject  of  my  toast.  (Cries  of  "All  right/9 
"Go  ahead,"  "Make  good.")—  'College  Days',  a  sub 
ject  that  must  arouse  the  tenderest  and  sweetest 
memories  in  the  bosom  of  every  one  here."  (Ap 
plause.  ) 

A  voice:  "Say,  this  fellow's  eloquent."  (Laugh 
ter.) 

Dubley:  "Tenderest  and  sweetest  memories  in  the 
bosom  of  every  one  here." 

A  voice:     "No  encores." 

[130] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

Another  voice:    "You  said  that  once." 

Dubley:     "Pardon  me;  I— ah " 

A  voice :    "Go  ahead !  you're  all  right — maybe." 
Dubley :    "When  I  look  around  me  and  see  all  these 
faces   beaming   with    good-fellowship    and    fraternal 

love  I " 

Grand  chorus:    "Ah-h-h-h-h !" 

Dubley :    "I  say,  when  I  look  around " 

A  voice :  "That's  twice  you've  looked  around." 
Dubley :  "I  realise  that  there  are  no  ties  as  lasting 
as  those  that  we  form  in  the  bright  days  of  our  youth 
within  the  college  halls.  (Cries  of  "Good  boy9'  and 
"Right  you  are,  old  rox")  No  matter  what  experi 
ences  may  befall  us — 

Distant  voice:      "Mr.   Toastmaster!     Mr.   Toast- 
master  !" 

Chairman:    "Well,  what  is  it?" 
Distant  voice:     "There  are  several  of  us  down  at 
this  end  of  the  table  who  did  not  catch  the  gentleman's 
name.     He  is  making  a  good  speech,  and  we  want  to 
know  who  he  is — let  go  of  my  coat !" 

The  Chairman:     "Gentlemen,  I  will  announce  for 
the  third  time  that  the  speaker  who  now  has  the  floor 
is  Mr.  Harold  Dubley  of  the  class  of  '89,  sometimes 
known  as  the  boy  orator  of  Danville." 
A  voice :     "Harold's  such  a  sweet  name." 
[131] 


DUBLEY.     '89 

The  Chairman:  "I  may  add  that  Mr.  Dubley  has 
prepared  his  speech  with  great  care  and  I  hope  you'll 
give  him  jour  quiet  attention."  (Cries  of  "AU  rigktF 


A  voice:    "Oh,Unaer    (Prolonged  howU.) 

Dobley:    "I  sometime*  think * 

A  voice:  "You  don't  look  it."  (Renewed  laugh- 
Ur.) 

Dubley:    "I  say,  I  sometimes  think " 

A  voice:    "Did  anybody  else  ever  say  it?" 

Dubley:  " — that  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of  busi 
ness  fife  here  in  the  great  metropolis  we  make  a  serious 
•"•**•*-»  in  neglecting  to  keep  up  the  friendships 
formed  in  college.  (Indian  yeU.  Some  one  throw*  a 
gtaUf  of  celery  at  Dubley.)  Ah— let  us  keep  alive 
the  holy  torch  ignited  at  the  altar  of  youthful 
loyalty." 

A  voice:     "Mr.  Toastmaster !" 

Tne  Chairman:     "What  is  it?" 

A  voice:  "I  propose  three  cheers  for  the  holy 
torch."  (Tremendous  cheermg  and  laughter.) 

Dubley:     "Hie   enthusiasm  manifested  here  this 


DUBLEY,     '89 

evening  proves  that  you  indorse  what  I  have  just 
said." 

A  voice :  "You  haven't  said  anything  yet."  (Cries 
of  "Order!"  and  "Gire  him  a  chance.99) 

Dubley:  "I  know  that  your  hearts — I  know  that 
vour  hearts "* 

One  of  the  rioters  (arising):  "Mr.  Toastmaster, 
I  move  vou  that  Mr.  Jubley  or  Gubley  or  whatever 
his  name  is,  be  directed  to  omit  all  anatomical  refer 
ences.  He  should  remember  that  there  are  gentlemen 
present/* 

The  Chairman:  "I  have  every  confidence  in  Mr. 
Dubley's  sense  of  propriety  and  must  ask  him  to  con 
tinue." 

Dubley  (hesitating  and  referring  to  his  card): 
"Oh — Oh  that  we  might — might  again  gather  on  the 
campus " 

A  voice:    "Wouldn't  that  be  nice?" 

Dubley:  " — in  the  same  company  that  was  once 
:ear  to  us.  there  to  sing  the  old  college  songs, 

A  voice:    "Mr.  Toastmaster P* 

The  Chairman:    "What  is  ':'  •" 

The  voice:  %%I  suggest  that  Mr.  Bubley  sing  one 
of  those  college  songs  to  which  he  refers  with  so  much 
feeling." 

[133] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

The  Chairman:  "I  may  add  that  Mr.  Dubley  has 
prepared  his  speech  with  great  care  and  I  hope  you'll 
give  him  your  quiet  attention."  (Cries  of  "All  right!" 
and  "Let 'ergo!") 

Dubley  (hesitatingly) : 

"  f  You  inay  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  rmll. 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  cling  round  it  still.' 

A  voice:    "Oh,  Lizzie!"     (Prolonged  howls.) 

Dubley :    "I  sometimes  think ' 

A  voice:  "You  don't  look  it."  (Renewed  laugh 
ter.) 

Dubley :    "I  say,  I  sometimes  think 

A  voice:    "Did  anybody  else  ever  say  it?" 

Dubley :  " — that  in  the  rush  and  hurry  of  busi 
ness  life  here  in  the  great  metropolis  we  make  a  serious 
mistake  in  neglecting  to  keep  up  the  friendships 
formed  in  college.  (Indian  yell.  Some  one  throws  a 
stalk  of  celery  at  Dubley.)  Ah — let  us  keep  alive 
the  holy  torch  ignited  at  the  altar  of  youthful 
loyalty." 

A  voice:     "Mr.  Toastmaster !" 

The  Chairman:     "What  is  it?" 

A  voice:  "I  propose  three  cheers  for  the  holy 
torch."  (Tremendous  cheering  and  laughter.) 

Dubley:  "The  enthusiasm  manifested  here  this 
[132] 


DUBLEY,     '89 

evening  proves  that  you  indorse  what  I  have  just 
said." 

A  voice :  "You  haven't  said  anything  yet."  (Cries 
of  "Order!"  and  "Give  him  a  chance") 

Dubley:  "I  know  that  your  hearts — I  know  that 
your  hearts " 

One  of  the  rioters  (arising):  "Mr.  Toastmaster, 
I  move  you  that  Mr.  Jubley  or  Gubley  or  whatever 
his  name  is,  be  directed  to  omit  all  anatomical  refer 
ences.  He  should  remember  that  there  are  gentlemen 
present." 

The  Chairman:  "I  have  every  confidence  in  Mr. 
Dubley's  sense  of  propriety  and  must  ask  him  to  con 
tinue." 

Dubley  (hesitating  and  referring  to  his  card) : 
"Oh — Oh  that  we  might — might  again  gather  on  the 
campus " 

A  voice :    "Wouldn't  that  be  nice  ?" 

Dubley:  " — in  the  same  company  that  was  once 
so  dear  to  us,  there  to  sing  the  old  college  songs, 

A  voice :    "Mr.  Toastmaster !" 

The  Chairman:    "What  is  it?" 

The  voice:  "I  suggest  that  Mr.  Bubley  sing  one 
of  those  college  songs  to  which  he  refers  with  so  much 
feeling." 

[133] 


THE     MONEY    PRESENT 


THE     MONEY     PRESENT 

Bless  the  little  ones!  We  must  remember  them  at 
Christmas,  and  what  could  be  more  appropriate  to  the 
glad  season  than  a  small  money  deposit  in  some  reliable 
bank. 

We  are  a  business  people.  We  admit  it.  Why  not 
give  our  children  a  long,  running  start  toward  a  busi 
ness  education? 

The  Noah's  Ark  animals  became  scattered  and 
splintered.  The  drums  are  punctured  and  the  cast- 
iron  fire  engine  goes  into  the  scrap-heap  before  May 
1st,  but  the  money  in  the  bank  endures  as  a  permanent 
asset. 

Candy  sometimes  causes  stomach-ache  and  the  nuts 
of  commerce  contain  such  a  large  percentage  of  oil 
that  a  small  child  having  partaken  too  freely  becomes 
oleaginous,  and  complains  of  twinges  in  the  digestive 
regions.  Even  books  lose  their  value  after  a  first  read 
ing  and  are  pushed  away  and  neglected. 

But  the  money  in  the  bank  never  plays  out.  It  is 
right  there,  ready  to  be  borrowed  by  papa  if  he 
chances  to  run  short  and  overdraw  his  own  account. 
[139] 


THE     MONEY    PRESENT 

And  there  is  no  hurry  about  returning  it,  because  the 
money  is  always  deposited  on  condition  that  it  cannot 
be  withdrawn  until  the  child  is  twenty-one. 

Picture :  It  is  the  cold  grey  of  Christmas  morning. 
The  youngster  has  slept  uneasily  and  has  seen 
Santa  Glaus,  with  smoky  breath  and  frosty  coat,  peek 
ing  into  his  room.  In  his  fitful  naps  he  has  reviewed 
a  procession  of  red  sleds  and  stood  under  a  festoon  of 
steel  skates,  tempered  to  a  handsome  blue. 

At  last  his  eyelids  part  reluctantly  and  the  first 
light  of  morning  is  squared  out  at  the  window.  His 
heart  gives  a  few  thumps  and  he  squirms  among  the 
warm  covers,  shaking  off  his  drowsiness  and  hoping 
hard  that  there  will  be  something  in  the  stocking. 

This  is  Christmas  morning  at  last!  He  has  been 
counting  the  mornings,  "Seven  more  until  Christmas," 
and  then  "Six  more  until  Christmas"  and  so  on  until 
it  is  not  even  one  more  morning  until  Christmas,  for 
the  day  and  the  morning  have  come.  He  wonders  if 
the  skates  are  there.  He  is  impatient  to  find  out,  and 
yet  almost  afraid  to  slip  out  in  the  cool  ghostly  silence 
and  investigate.  Not  that  he  is  afraid  of  the  shadows 
and  the  stillness,  but  he  is  faltering  at  this  last  moment 
and  wondering  if  his  very  politic  remarks  in  regard  to 
skates,  a  steam  engine  and  plenty  of  candy  were  taken 
seriously. 

[140] 


THE     MONEY     PRESENT 

He  cannot  lie  there  and  struggle  with  uncertainty. 
His  two  bare  feet  strike  the  rug  simultaneously  and  he 
patters  swiftly  to  the  front  room. 

There  hangs  the  stocking — limp  and  empty.  The 
hot  tears  blind  his  eyes  and  he  has  a  smothery  feeling 
at  the  throat.  With  a  despairing  sniffle  he  seizes  the 
stocking  and — what  is  this?  There  is  something  in 
side,  after  all. 

Hope  rises  faintly  within  him.  He  draws  out  a  lit 
tle  hand-book  and  sees  on  the  first  page,  in  a  firm  busi 
ness  hand,  the  entry,  "Cash,  $5." 

Oh,  what  a  sweep  of  joy  engulfs  the  young  soul  at 
that  moment !  He  has  not  been  forgotten  by  good  old 
Santy !  No  indeed !  He  has  five  dollars  locked  up  in 
the  bank. 

Although  he  will  be  unable  to  get  at  the  money, 
the  knowledge  that  it  is  in  the  custody  of  a  responsi 
ble  corporation  and  can  be  withdrawn  in  fifteen  years, 
should  be  sufficient  to  warm  the  imagination  of  any 
child  and  set  the  carols  to  singing  in  his  heart. 

With  what  ecstacy  he  scampers  away  to  tell  papa 
and  mamma  of  his  great  good  fortune.  He  waves  the 
bank-book  above  his  head  and  his  gleeful  shouts  break 
the  dull  silence  of  dawn.  What  cares  he  now  for 
skates,  picture-books,  nuts  or  candy? 

"Oh,  look,  papa!"  he  exclaims.     "See!  I  have  five 

[1411 


THE     MONEY     PRESENT 

dollars  deposited  to  my  credit  with  the  savings  de 
partment  of  the  Herculanasum  Bank  and  Funda 
mental  Reserve  Trust  Company !  Am  I  not  to  be  con 
gratulated?" 

Witness,  also,  the  glad  scene  after  breakfast. 

Papa  has  taken  little  Robbie  on  his  lap  and  to 
gether  they  are  figuring  out  the  compound  interest 
on  $5  for  a  period  of  fifteen  years,  at  4  per  cent,  per 
annum. 

How  the  little  one's  eyes  sparkle  with  understand 
ing  as  he  studies  the  long  row  of  figures  and  realises 
that  within  the  next  twelve  months  his  deposit  will 
earn  twenty  cents  interest. 

While  he  is  at  school,  striving  to  improve  his  mind, 
and  while  he  is  playing  with  his  youthful  companions, 
perhaps  forgetting  his  deposit  in  the  excitement  of 
the  moment,  his  money  will  be  increasing  at  the  rate 
of  one  and  two-thirds  cents  a  month. 

What  a  child  needs  is  a  bank  account.  When  a  boy 
is  six  years  old  it  is  time  that  he  be  made  to  grapple 
with  the  sombre  responsibilities  of  commercialism.  If 
he  weeps  and  does  not  seem  to  feel  the  advantage  of 
having  five  dollars  secreted  in  a  bank,  explain  to  him 
the  beauties  of  business  economy  and  load  him  down 
with  maxims. 

What  a  Christmas  we  could  have  if  parents  would 
[142] 


THE     MONEY     PRESENT 

refrain  from  giving  their  children  boxes  of  candy, 
sacks  of  nuts,  fairy  tales,  winking  dolls,  sets  of  dishes, 
games,  building  blocks,  mechanical  toys,  jumping 
jacks  and  such  fripperies,  and,  instead,  gave  each 
child  a  hand-written  certificate  of  deposit!  Santa 
Claus  should  wear  side-whiskers  and  a  tall  hat  and 
carry  a  burglar-proof  safe  in  the  back  of  his  sleigh. 

The  Christmas  decoration  should  be  the  word 
"Utility,"  worked  out  in  evergreen  and  in  addition  to 
a  $5  deposit,  every  blessed  cherub  should  receive  a 
jumper  suit  of  underwear  and  a  pair  of  mittens. 


[143] 


BEST    OF    THE     PARLEYS 


BEST     OF     THE     PARLEYS 

John  Farley  has  worked  hard,  taken  the  cheerful  view 
of  life,  smoked  a  large  amount  of  tobacco,  "got  drunk" 
occasionally  and  saved  enough  money  to  pay  for  a 
little  house  in  Pitkin  Street.  He  stands  well  with  the 
foreman  and  is  a  favourite  at  the  corner  bar,  for  he  is 
a  wit  and  a  commentator.  He  is  prosperous,  according 
to  the  division  of  wealth  in  Pitkin  Street — prosper 
ous  and  pr9ud.  His  pride  is  Rosie. 

She  was  born  at  the  Pitkin  Street  house,  and  in  her 
childhood  she  ranged  through  the  alleys  and  lumber 
by-ways  that  led  to  the  river.  Mrs.  Farley  allowed 
the  children  to  run  wild  until  they  were  old  enough 
to  be  sent  to  the  big  public  school.  Rosie  used  to  wear 
a  patched  slip  of  dingy  material.  The  wisp  of  dis 
ordered  hair  was  caught  up  with  a  black  string.  She 
had  the  usual  affinity  for  dirt.  Her  mother  never  kept 
her  in  hand.  Her  father  joked  with  her  and  told  her 
Irish  goblin  stories  and  was  a  good  playmate,  but 
he  never  took  himself  seriously  as  a  parent.  She  never 
had  any  home  "training."  Certainly  she  was  never 
"reared." 

[147] 


BEST     OF     THE     PARLEYS 

So  why  did  she  pick  up  into  a  neat  and  careful  Miss 
who  read  books  that  were  new  to  Pitkin  Street?  Af 
ter  she  finished  at  the  grammar  school  she  was  a  sales 
girl,  and  then  she  took  up  short-hand.  She  bought 
her  own  clothing  and  had  a  bank-book. 

At  twenty  she  was  the  only  member  of  the  family 
who  had  ready  money  when  Tommy,  caught  up  for 
beating  a  man  with  a  billiard-cue,  had  to  pay  a  fine 
of  twenty-five  dollars  or  go  to  the  bridewell.  Rosie 
went  to  the  station  and  paid  the  fine.  Mrs.  Farley 
wept  before,  during,  and  after  the  trial,  protesting 
that  it  was  the  shame  of  her  life  that  her  son  should 
be  "in  prison."  John  Farley  was  gloomily  disgraced 
by  the  affair  and  told  Tommy  that  he  would  have  to 
pay  his  sister  every  cent.  He  has  not  paid  it  as 
yet. 

Tommy  had  grown  up  in  Pitkin  Street,  as  Rosie 
had.  The  two  attended  the  same  school  and  were  al 
lowed  an  equal  start,  such  as  it  was.  Tommy,  at 
twenty-seven,  is  a  slouching  ruffian  who  stands  at  the 
corner  with  other  members  of  the  "Terry  gang," 
drinks  as  often  as  he  can,  and  works  as  seldom  as  possi 
ble.  Rosie,  at  twenty-four,  is  a  delectable  creature, 
who  knows  what  clothes  to  wear  and  how  to  carry  her 
self.  She  earns  a  salary  of  $15  a  week  as  a  sten 
ographer,  is  prized  by  her  employers,  pointed  out 
[148] 


BEST     OF     THE     PARLEYS 

by  all  of  Pitkin  Street,  and  especially  respected  and 
held  in  awe  by  John  Farley  and  his  wife.  All  the 
wayward  young  girls  of  Pitkin  Street  who  steal  out 
of  evenings  to  join  the  rowdy  young  men  are  told  to 
observe  Rosie  Farley,  who  never  does  such  things. 
Rosie  sets  the  styles  for  the  street — no  flaunting  white 
feathers  and  gay  ribbons,  but  the  trimmest  of  cloth 
suits  in  winter  and  shirt-waist  effects  in  summer.  The 
over-grown  boys  who  went  to  school  with  her  touch 
their  hats  uneasily  when  she  passes  and  comment  in 
whispers.  That  is  all.  They  simply  admire  her  at  a 
distance. 

To  John  Farley  it  is  an  unending  surprise  that  he 
is  the  father  of  the  wonderful  Rosie.  She  is  the  ruler 
of  the  household  and  has  been  ever  since  a  certain 
Saturday  night  in  June. 

John  Farley  seldom  drank  too  much  except  on  Sat 
urday  night,  when  it  was  his  habit  to  come  home  in 
an  excited  and  confused  state  of  mind  and  make  long 
speeches  to  Mrs.  Farley,  who  would  weep.  The 
woman  was  emotional  by  nature.  She  loved  strange 
funerals  and  death-bed  stories  and  family  griefs. 

When  John  Farley  was  in  drink  he  would  declaim 

of  his  wife's  unworthiness,  of  her  improvidence,  of 

her    neglect    of    household    duties.       The    more    she 

moaned  and  sobbed  and  lamented  the  fact  of  her  birth 

[149] 


BEST     OF     THE     PARLEYS 

the  more  sweeping  and  eloquent  was  his  attack.  Her 
demonstrative  grief  seemed  to  act  as  a  stimulant  to  his 
invective.  These  occasional  Saturday  night  scenes 
had  been  enacted  ever  since  Rosie  could  remember.  As 
a  little  girl  she  had  lain  in  bed,  trembling  at  the 
sounds  and  feeling  a  secret  shame  that  she  had  been 
born  to  such  parents.  Later  she  had  endured  the 
squalls  with  saintly  forbearance.  Later  still,  she 
wearied  of  them.  She  began  to  understand  that  her 
father's  Saturday  night  attack  and  her  mother's  re 
sponsive  weeping  made  up  a  kind  of  ceremonial  which 
had  no  serious  import  and  was  observed  solely  be 
cause  it  had  attained  the  dignity  of  a  custom. 

Her  father  never  quarrelled  except  after  drinking. 
It  seemed  that  when  he  came  to  a  certain  period  of  in 
toxication  he  had  the  impulse  to  go  home  and  deliver 
the  set  oration  to  his  wife.  Her  sufferings  were  terri 
ble  on  Saturday  evening.  On  Sunday  morning  she 
would  be  placid  and  cheerful  again. 

On  the  Saturday  evening  which  marked  the  change 
of  administration,  young  Mr.  Carroll,  son  of  the  con 
tractor,  had  called  to  see  Rosie.  They  were  sitting 
on  the  front  stoop  when  John  Farley  came  home 
through  the  front  gate  and  went  around  to  the  side- 
door  of  the  house.  He  walked  with  his  feet  far  apart 
and  was  staring  straight  ahead  with  a  filmy  and  un- 
[150] 


BEST     OF     THE     PARLEYS 

observant  gaze.  He  was  very  erect,  also,  as  a  man 
should  be  when  he  is  quite  sober. 

Rosie  was  prepared  for  what  began  in  the  kitchen. 
John  started  in  on  his  familiar  and  highly  coloured 
speech  depicting  the  woes  of  the  honest  working-man 
who  is  married  to  a  lazy  and  wasteful  slattern.  The 
doors  and  windows  were  open.  This  oration  threat 
ened  to  permeate  the  block. 

"Please  go  home,  Mr.  Carroll,"  said  Rosie,  "I  am 
needed  in  the  house." 

Mrs.  Farley  was  sitting  beside  the  kitchen-table, 
with  her  apron  rolled  into  a  handkerchief.  She  was 
rocking  sidewise  and  wailing  mechanically,  and  there 
was  a  rivulet  of  tears  on  each  cheek. 

John  Farley  was  pacing  between  the  table  and  the 
stove,  making  broad  and  slashing  gestures  to  accom 
pany  his  fluent  vituperation. 

"What  if  I  do  go  and  take  a  drink  ?"  he  demanded. 
"What  objection  should  you  have,  you  poor,  mis'able 
creature?  I  have  me  rights  and  me  liberties,  which 
not  you  or  anny  one  else  can  deprive  me  of.  Now 
mind  you  that !  I  might  as  well  let  me  money  go  for 
drink  as  have  it  thrown  away  by  the  likes  of  you.  I'm 
an  industhrus,  hard-workin'  man  six  days  in  the  week 


"Father!     Stop  that!" 

[151] 


BEST    OF    THE    PARLEYS 

John  Farley  stopped  short,  with  his  hand  up,  and 
looked  in  bleary  surprise  at  Rosie,  who  stood  in  the 
doorway,  her  lips  closed  tightly  and  her  eyes  squinted 
with  determination. 

"Rosie,  I've  put  up  with  that  woman  for  years  an' 
y'know  that  as  well " 

"Hush !  I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  out  of 
you.  Let  me  tell  you  something.  Unless  you  and 
mother  stop  this  nonsense,  I'm  going  to  leave  this  house 
and  never  come  back." 

"Oh,  Rosie,  poor  soul,  if  you  on'y  knew — "  faltered 
Mrs.  Farley. 

"I  know  that  you  are  a  fool,  that's  what  I  know  for 
one  thing,  mother.  Why  do  you  pay  any  attention 
to  him  when  he  comes  home  in  this  condition  and  begins 
this  silly  talk.  I've  heard  it  for  years  and  I'm  thor 
oughly  tired  of  it.  Hereafter,  father,  you  do  all  of 
your  talking  at  the  saloon  and  then  come  home  and  go 
to  bed." 

John  Farley  smacked  his  lips  and  tried  to  put  him 
self  into  an  attitude  of  authority. 

"Rosie,  you  mustn't  int'fere,"  he  said,  and  he  made 
a  short  gesture  as  of  brushing  something  aside. 

"Father!" — he  jumped  when  she  said  it.  "Right 
through  this  door  and  to  your  room !  And  not  another 
word  out  of  you  to-night." 

[152] 


BEST    OF    THE    PARLEYS 

I'll  do  it  as  favour  to  you,  Rosie,"  he  said,  teeter 
ing  slightly  as  he  turned  to  make  for  the  door.  "I'll 
do  it  for  you,  but  I  want't  unde'stood  I 

"Very  well,  we  will  discuss  that  part  of  it  in  the 
morning." 

Then  she  turned  to  her  mother,  whose  grief  had 
settled  down  to  a  low,  bubbling  tremolo  with  equi-dis- 
tant  gusty  sighs  that  seemed  to  lift  the  good  woman 
from  the  chair. 

"He's  abused  me — this  way — time  after  time,  until 
— I  just  think  sometimes — I  can't  stand  it  any 
longer,"  said  Mrs.  Farley,  through  the  folds  of  her 
damp  apron. 

"Stop  that  sniffling!"  commanded  Rosie.  "Don't 
you  know  that  you  encourage  him  to  carry  on  that 
way?  You  ought  to  know  it  by  this  time.  I  think 
this  house  needs  a  manager." 

So  from  that  evening  Rosie  became  manager  and 
there  was  a  reform  administration.  The  Saturday- 
night  outbreaks  ceased.  Rosie  changed  the  market 
ing-list  and  taught  her  father  to  eat  new  kinds  of 
food.  She  bought  her  mother's  dresses  and  made  Mrs. 
Farley  presentable  in  spite  of  herself.  It  was  Rosie 
who  pitched  out  the  chromos  and  the  jig-saw  brackets 
and  the  yellow-plush  sofa  and  brought  in  rugs  and 
water-colours.  Rosie  took  charge  of  her  father's  tin 
[153] 


BEST    OF    THE    PARLEYS 

box  and  directed  the  payments  to  the  building  and 
loan  association.  It  was  Rosie  who  had  the  house 
painted. 

The  climax  of  the  revolution  came  when  Rosie  an 
nounced  that  Tommy  would  be  expected  to  pay  board  if 
he  remained  at  home.  He  could  get  work  at  the  mantel 
factory,  and  Rosie  told  him  that  $3.50  a  week  would 
be  a  great  help  in  the  financing  of  the  household. 
Tommy  was  much  aggrieved  at  the  demand,  and  his 
mother  rather  sympathised  with  him.  She  told  Rosie 
not  to  be  too  hard  on  a  "slip  of  a  boy."  But  the  "slip 
of  a  boy"  was  past  twenty-five  when  Rosie  gave  him 
the  stern  alternative  of  earning  his  living  or  starving 
to  death.  So  Tommy  is  working  intermittently,  much 
against  his  will. 

On  Saturday  night,  when  John  Farley  gets  the  cus 
tomary  glass  too  much,  he  does  not  go  home  to  lacerate 
the  humid  sensibilities  of  Mrs.  Farley.  When  he  feels 
his  vocal  strength  demanding  an  outlet  and  he  knows 
that  he  must  gesticulate  in  order  to  relieve  himself, 
he  gives  the  company  in  the  Bridgeport  Buffet  a  seri 
ous  speech  on  the  subject  of  Rosie,  most  wondrous  of 
her  sex. 


[154] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

Mr.  Wimberlcy  wanted  to  turn  up  his  trousers  at 
the  bottom,  but  he  was  afraid.  Afraid  of  what  ?  Of 
ridicule,  contumely,  the  unmoving  finger  of  scorn. 

The  common,  conservative  public,  which  has  its 
clothes  cut  by  machine-pattern,  and  which  moves  as 
slowly  as  a  glacier  toward  any  change  of  fashion, 
seems  to  have  an  unusually  spiteful  grudge  against 
the  young  man  who  reefs  his  trousers. 

Is  it  because  the  sartorial  fancy  claims  British 
origin?  Is  the  protest  inspired  by  a  too-rampant 
Americanism?  Does  the  Irish  vote  influence  public 
sentiment?  Does  it? 

Or  do  most  of  our  hard-headed  fellow-citizens  re 
sent  the  little  whimsies  and  caprices  which  are  intended 
to  prove  that  some  of  us  are  more  jaunty  than  others? 

Every  one  will  admit  that  on  a  dry  day  there  is  no 
first-class  reason  why  a  man  should  be  compelled  to 
take  a  turn  in  his  trousers.  He  turns  up  his  trousers 
because  he  wants  them  up,  and  in  so  doing  he  signals 
his  defiance  to  the  paragraphcr  and  the  private  hu- 
[157] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

mourist.      Could  any  small  action  suggest  a  higher 
degree  of  moral  courage? 

Why  persecute  the  man?  Even  if  the  turning-up 
is  a  mere  fad,  an  eccentricity  intended  to  help  out  the 
effect  of  carelessness — a  studied  attempt  at  negli 
gence,  as  it  were — is  it  not  true  that  many  details  of 
fashion  which  have  become  hallowed  by  usage  are  just 
as  superfluous  when  studied  from  the  cold  stand-point 
of  utility? 

Of  what  especial  value  are  the  buttons  on  the  back 
of  a  coat?  What  is  the  sense  of  putting  a  flap  on  the 
side  of  a  coat  when  there  is  no  pocket  to  be  covered 
and  protected  by  the  flap?  By  what  argument  can  it 
be  shown  that  one  notch  in  the  lapel  of  a  coat  is  better 
than  two  notches  or  no  notch  at  all?  Is  it  urged  that 
buttons,  flaps,  and  notches  have  a  decorative  value? 
Very  well,  Mr.  Wimberley  believed  that  the  reef  had 
its  value. 

There  is  no  absolute  standard  of  taste  in  the  matter 
of  attire.  We  can  admire  any  shape  of  hat  or  any 
cut  of  waistcoat  to  which  we  may  have  become  accus 
tomed,  although  twenty  years  later  we  will  see  these 
hats  and  waistcoats  in  group  photographs  and  laugh 
at  their  hidcousncss. 

He  who  follows  the  correct  mode  is  safe  for  the 
present  at  least.    At  any  rate,  he  should  be. 
[158] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

Along  these  lines  Mr.  Wimberley  had  reasoned  to 
himself,  with  the  result  that  he  felt  justified  in  wear 
ing  his  trousers  turned  up.  He  observed  that  a  ma 
jority  of  his  acquaintances  who  had  either  wealth  or 
a  country-club  standing  wore  their  trousers  broadly 
folded  upward  from  the  somewhat  English  shoes. 

He  could  not  tell  why  it  was  so  but  he  had  noticed 
that  when  a  man  in  summer  regalia,  with  soft  shirt, 
golf  hat,  pig-skin  belt,  and  roomy  flannels — when  a 
man  thus  clad  gave  the  careless  turn  to  the  bottom 
of  each  trouser's  leg,  he  was  immediately  transformed 
from  the  conventional  to  the  rakishly  unconventional 
and  seemed  to  wear  a  new  mark  of  exclusiveness.  One 
stroke  is  always  needed  to  change  the  mechanic's 
product  into  a  work  of  art,  or  the  dressed  man  into  the 
dressy. 

As  we  have  said,  Mr.  Wimberley  had  come  to  a 
gropeful  understanding  of  the  tremendous  significance 
of  the  turned-up  trouser,  but  he  was  afraid. 

He  knew  of  twenty  acquaintances  who  would  ask, 
"Hello,  is  it  raining  in  London?"  This  has  been 
counted  a  good  joke  since  1880.  Admitting  that  the 
question  betrays  the  mental  bankruptcy  of  the  person 
who  asks  it,  there  is  no  gainsaying  the  fact  that  it  is 
a  disconcerting  question  and  one  not  easilv  answered. 

In  Mr.  Wimberley's  room  there  was  a  mirror  swung 
[159] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

on  top  of  a  dresser.  By  facing  this  mirror  toward  the 
floor,  Mr.  Wimberley  could  stand  about  twelve  feet 
from  the  dresser  and  study  his  own  leg  effects. 

He  would  move  into  the  focus  and  look  at  the 
trousers  lying  limp  on  the  shoes.  Picture — very  bad. 
No  individuality,  no  differentiation. 

Then  he  would  turn  them  up.  Result :  A  pleasing 
transformation.  Whole  attire  much  smarter  and  more 
definitely  set — shoe  more  shapely — legs  not  so  spidery. 
— an  indefinable  suggestion  of  the  athletic.  He  would 
walk  around  the  room,  approaching  the  mirror  sud 
denly  from  different  angles  in  order  to  get  quick  im 
pressions  and  see  himself  as  others  would  see  him  when 
he  moved  along  the  boulevard  with  heavy,  energetic 
strides,  the  body  tilted  slightly  forward. 

After  coming  upon  himself  several  times  and  being 
most  pleasantly  surprised  in  each  instance,  he  would 
start  to  leave  the  room. 

With  his  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door  he  would 
hesitate  for  a  moment  or  two,  standing  still,  faint, 
nerveless,  and  undetermined.  Then  he  would  stoop 
over  and  unreef  his  trousers  and  go  out  into  the 
bright  street,  with  something  of  a  loathing  for  himself. 

What  a  weakling  he  was !  Why  could  he  not  stalk 
forth  and  wear  the  cool  indifference  which  he  had  ad 
mired  in  others  ?  Were  not  the  people  who  sat  on  the 
[160] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

terraced  stairways  of  the  boarding-houses  far  beneath 
his  contempt? 

Could  he  afford  to  restrain  his  raiment  or  cramp 
his  manners  in  order  to  earn  the  silent  approbation 
of  a  street  full  of  nobodies,  who  wore  speckled  cravats, 
needle-point  shoes,  barbarous  white  hats  which  were 
black  on  the  under  side  (like  toad-stools),  and  who 
were  supposed  to  use  bay  rum  in  quantities? 

No,  by  George! 

One  day  Mr.  Wimberley  walked  into  the  street  with 
his  trousers  turned  up.  It  was  a  satisfactory  June 
day,  dry  and  clear,  with  no  clouds  overhead  save  those 
that  tumbled  from  the  stacks  and  chimneys. 

Mr.  Wimberley  passed  two  young  fellows  standing 
at  the  drug-store  corner.  They  were  the  kind  that 
wear  soft  hats  pulled  down  to  their  eyebrows  and 
use  both  belt  and  suspenders. 

One  of  them  gave  a  chirping  sound,  in  imitation  of 
a  bird,  and  said,  "Meet  me  at  the  links,  Harold." 

Mr.  Wimberley  flushed,  but  he  was  somewhat  grati 
fied,  withal.  So  he  did  resemble  a  golf-player,  did 
he? 

Two  girls  sat  on  a  front  stoop  at  one  of  the  wedged- 
in  boarding-houses.  They  were  sharp-eyed,  thin- 
nosed,  canary-looking  girls,  and  they  were  chewing 
gum, 

[161] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

"Say,  Pearl,  I  guess  we're  goin'  to  have  rain,"  said 
one  of  them. 

"Yes,  it  looks  like  it,"  said  the  other,  and  the  two 
cackled  at  their  own  audacity. 

"A  very  low  order  of  young  woman,"  thought  Mr. 
Wimberley,  gazing  straight  ahead. 

He  wondered  what  their  kind  of  a  man  would  be. 
Possibly  a  pink-shirted  scoundrel  with  ringlets — one 
who  used  musk  and  had  gold  fillings.  Heavens! 

"Hello,  Wimberley,  is  it  raining  in  London?" 

Aha!  He  had  been  expecting  it.  He  turned  and 
saw  Carrington,  a  most  objectionable  person  whose 
only  excuse  for  being  lay  in  the  diminished  glory  of 
having  ridden  a  certain  number  of  "centuries"  on  a 
bicycle. 

"Carrington,  do  you  know  why  I  wear  my  trousers 
turned  up  at  the  bottom  ?"  asked  Mr.  Wimberley,  for 
he  had  prepared  a  little  speech  which  was  to  put  the 
quietus  on  impertinent  comics. 

"No,  I  must  say  I  don't,"  replied  the  century 
rider. 

"I  wear  them  that  way  because  you  don't.  I  want 
to  be  as  much  unlike  you  as  possible." 

And  he  hurried  on,  while  the  dart  was  still  quiver 
ing. 

[162] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

It  may  not  be  necessary  to  tell  that  when  Mr.  Wim- 
berley  arrived  at  his  place  of  employment  his  fellow- 
slaves  made  remarks  intended  to  be  directly  or  in 
directly  critical. 

One  man  of  abnormal  originality  asked,  "How's 
the  Prince?"  and  another,  with  a  confessed  genius  for 
doing  clever  things,  whistled  "Rule  Britannia." 

But  Mr.  Wimberley  had  nerved  himself  in  antici 
pation  of  these  gibes.  He  was  in  good  form  and  he 
could  afford  to  smile  in  pitying  contempt. 

When  he  went  out  for  lunch  his  trousers  were  still 
turned  up.  It  seemed  that  he  had  won  the  day.  Na 
poleon  had  a  glimpse  of  victory  at  Waterloo.  That 
was  before  Blucher  came  up. 

While  on  his  way  to  the  lunch-place  he  almost 
bumped  into  his  Uncle  Samuel,  who  owns  a  tile-yard 
at  Messowee. 

"Why,  Georgie,  is  it  you?"  asked  Uncle  Sam,  hold 
ing  his  right  hand  in  a  grip  and  squeezing  his  arm, 
so  as  to  be  doubly  cordial.  "You're  lookin'  first-rate. 
Gittin'  to  be  quite  a  dude,  too." 

His  good-natured  scrutiny  passed  downward.  He 
saw  the  turned-up  trousers  and  regarded  them  with 
friendly  interest. 

"Pants  too  long?"  he  inquired,  softly. 

"Yes— I— ah— er " 

[163] 


MR.    WIMBERLEY'S    TROUSERS 

"Mine's  usually  that  way.  I  have  the  man  chop  'em 
off." 

"Maybe  these  won't  be  too  long,"  said  Mr.  Wim- 
berley,  with  a  frightened  smile. 

He  stooped  over  and  turned  them  down.  At  that 
moment  he  gave  up  for  all  time  his  hope  of  being  a 
swell  and  a  hero. 


[164] 


THE     FORMER     KATHRYN 


THE     FORMER     KATHRYN 

"Who— the  girl  that  used  to  be  at  this  counter?" 
she  repeated,  with  a  puckery  smile  and  a  glance  of 
suspicion.  "Did  you  know  her?  Huh?  Oh — you 
jast  saw  her  here  once  or  twice.  I  thought  mebbe 
from  the  way  you  spoke  you  was  a  friend  of  hers.  I 
might  have  known  you  wasn't,  though — by  the  looks. 
She  had  the  squiggiest  lot  of  gentlemen  friends  I  ever 
want  to  see.  Yes,  I  mean  the  same  one  that  you  do — 
the  red-headed  one.  She  had  two  or  three  names.  We 
called  her  'Sorrel-top'  here.  How  did  you  happen 
to  remember  her?  By  the  hair,  I  s'pose.  My,  that 
hair!  It  was  bad  enough  to  begin  with,  and  then  the 
way  she  kept  it  done  up !  I  think  she  must  have  put 
glue  or  something  else  on  it  to  make  it  stand  the  way 
it  did.  She  was  a  peculiar  girl — a  very  peculiar  girl. 
Some  people  around  here  said  she  was  a  little — well, 
not  exactly  cracked,  but  I  guess  she  had  a  case  of  the 
Willies,  all  right.  She  had  a  very  strange  nature. 
Yes,  indeed.  And  a  nerve!  Gracious  me!  The  way 
she'd  get  acquainted  with  gentlemen-customers  was  a 
caution.  I  used  to  tell  her  that  I'd  give  a  good  deal 
[167] 


THE     FORMER     KATHRYN 

for  her  nerve.  Did  she  ever  tell  you  her  name?  It's 
a  wonder.  I  guess  you  never  encouraged  her  much  or 
she'd  'a'  told  you,  all  right.  She  used  to  tell  every 
body.  Her  name  was  Katie  Gailey.  I'll  bet  you  can't 
guess  what  she's  doin'  now.  Learnin'  to  be  a  mani 
cure.  Wouldn't  that  jolt  you,  though?  If  you'd  see 
her  on  the  street  now,  I  don't  s'pose  you'd  know  her. 
She  wears  one  of  these  long  coats  an'  eye-glasses. 
She's  a  sight !  And  the  way  she  throws  it  on.  It's 
funny  to  me.  It  is  funny  to  me,  knowin'  the  family 
as  I  do.  We  went  to  the  Jefferson  school  together. 
She  was  an  awful  dumb  scholar,  too.  Her  father 
drove  a  bread-wagon  an1  they  say  he  drank.  Sakes 
alive,  if  you  could  'a'  heard  her  talk  about  her  pa-pah 
after  she  come  down  here  to  work,  you'd  'a'  thought 
he  was  the  president  o'  something.  It's  funny,  ain't 
it,  how  people  change  sometimes  when  they  get  away 
from  home.  Humph !  When  I  knew  her  she  was  Katie, 
but  when  she  got  to  workin'  over  here,  she  called  her 
self  Kathryn,  y — n,  mind  you!  I  hear  she  wanted 
to  be  an  actress.  She'd  make  a  swell  actress,  I  don't 
think.  She  was  very  unpopular  here,  on  account  of 
her  deceitful  nature.  She  wouldn't  have  lasted  as  long 
as  she  did  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Root,  the  floor 
walker.  I  think  he  was  kind  o'  stuck  on  her,  myself. 
It  was  two  of  a  kind,  becuz  he  was  just  as  soft  as  mush. 
[168] 


THE    FORMER    KATHRYN 

Katie  used  to  roll  her  eyes  up  and  smile  at  him  when 
he  walked  past,  and  he'd  grin  back  at  her,  and  honest, 
Miss  Ducey  an'  me  used  to  stuff  our  handkerchiefs  in 
our  mouths  to  keep  from  squawkin'  right  out.  You  bet 
any  time  I  have  to  make  funny  eyes  at  a  bald-headed 
floor- walker  to  hold  my  job — well!  You  ought  to 
seen  her  after  Mr.  McKay  was  put  into  this  aisle.  She 
couldn't  roll  her  eyes  at  him !  Mr.  McKay  is  very 
strict.  The  first  day  he  come  right  down  this  aisle 
here  an'  she  was  leanin'  back,  chewm'  her  pencil  an' 
tryin'  to  flag  one  o'  them  boys  over  in  the  glove  de 
partment,  an'  Mr.  McKay  snapped  his  fingers  an'  said, 
'Miss  Gailey,  attend  to  the  customers,  please,'  just 
like  that.  I  thought  Miss  Ducey  was  goin'  to  have  a 
fit.  Katie  was  so  mad  all  afternoon,  you  could  just  see 
the  sparks  comin'  out  o'  that  red  hair.  I  guess  that 
boy's  got  your  change  an'  gone  fishin'  with  it.  You'd 
better  take  off  your  muffler  or  you'll  ketch  cold  when 
you  go  out.  That's  a  lovely  muffler. 

"You  know  me  and  Katie  haven't  spoke  since  she 
left  here.  She  claims  I  had  something  to  do  with  get- 
tin'  her  fired.  You  have  no  idea  the  spiteful  temper 
of  that  girl.  I  s'pose  that's  on  account  of  her  red 
hair.  I've  heard  that  red-haired  people  all  have  very 
high  tempers.  My,  if  she  didn't  have  a  grouch  the 
last  day  she  was  here!  She  just  the  same  as  insulted 
[169] 


THE    FORMER    KATHRYN 

a  number  of  customers  that  day — yes,  indeed.  That 
was  the  day  she  accused  me  of  havin'  her  fired.  I  said 
to  her,  'Katie  Gailey,  you've  got  nobody  but  yourself 
to  blame — blabbin'  about  everybody  that  ever  worked 
with  you.'  She  used  some  awful  language  to  me.  She 
used  language  to  me  that  nobody  should  use,  I  can  tell 
you  that.  I  said  to  her,  'Sticks  an'  stones  may  break 
my  bones,  but  words  will  never  hurt  me' !  I  thought 
Miss  Ducey  would  go  right  under  the  counter. 

"Well,  sakes  alive,  boy,  you  did  get  back  at  last, 
did  you?  Never  mind  about  that.  We  can  get  along 
without  any  lip  from  you.  Give  the  gentleman  his 
change.  He  come  purty  near  gettin'  grey-headed 
while  he  was  waitin'  for  you.  Is  that  so  ?  Well,  you'll 
be  lookin'  for  another  job  if  you  get  new  with  me. 
I've  spoke  to  Mr.  McKay  about  you  once  already. 
Yes,  sir,  they'll  be  delivered  this  afternoon  or  to 
morrow  morning.  Say,  if  you  sec  Katie  again,  you 
ask  her  if  she  remembers  borrowin'  fifty  cents  from 
Miss  Ducey.  You  just  ask  her  that  and  see  what  she 
says.  Good-bye !  Don't  forget  the  aisle." 


[170] 


CUPID     IN     BUTTONS 


CUPID     IN     BUTTONS 

"Bibbs"  was  an  elevator-boy  in  the  family  hotel. 
Do  you  know  the  family  hotel — where  the  women  have 
no  employment  except  to  investigate  the  new-comers, 
and  the  head  clerk  is  an  encyclopedia  of  scandal,  and 
they  move  the  chairs  out  of  the  dining-room  every 
two  weeks  and  have  a  "grand  hop"? 

In  such  a  hotel  "Bibbs"  worked  the  lever  in  an  ele 
vator-cage  of  twisted  grill-work.  Two  of  the  women 
who  rode  with  him  were  Mrs.  Williams  and  Mrs.  Cole. 
These  estimable  ladies  were  childless  and  burdened 
with  leisure.  To  relieve  the  tedium  of  hotel  life  they 
lounged  on  the  first  floor,  observing  and  comparing 
notes  and  classifying  such  information  as  comes  wel 
come  to  the  feminine  curiosity.  They  knew  how  to 
worm  secrets  out  of  the  amiable  blonde  who  was  at  the 
day  desk.  They  knew  which  of  the  men  in  the  hotel 
said  harsh  and  cruel  things  to  their  wives.  They  knew 
the  past  of  the  slender  woman  who  wanted  to  be  known 
as  a  widow,  although  really  a  divorcee.  They  knew 
which  of  the  young  men  drank  and  came  in  late. 
[173] 


CUPID     IN     BUTTONS 

They  could  retail  the  grammatical  errors  and  the 
social  "breaks"  of  the  family  that  lately  had  come  in 
from  the  country  town. 

These  two,  putting  this  and  that  together,  viewing 
one  circumstance  in  the  light  of  another  and  basing 
opinions  upon  their  own  knowledge  of  how  matri 
monial  intentions  are  fostered,  concluded  that  Fannie 
Procter  would  become  the  wife  of  "Willie"  Branford. 

Having  settled  comfortably  into  this  belief  they 
were  amazed  to  learn  that  Fannie  had  accepted  "Al" 
Maynard,  a  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested  young 
man,  whose  characteristics  had  been  an  apparent  in 
difference  to  the  charms  of  young  women,  a  passion 
for  fifteen-ball  pool,  and  a  bashful  aversion  to  whist 
and  round  dances. 

Albert  Maynard,  indeed !  Had  he  ever  hovered 
around  Fannie  at  any  of  the  Saturday-night  dances? 
Had  he  sent  flowers  to  her  day  after  day,  and  smiled 
at  her  every  time  he  came  into  breakfast?  Had  he 
come  out  in  evening  dress  and  tagged  after  her  when 
she  went  into  the  parlour  ?  Had  Fannie  ever  addressed 
him  familiarly  and  sent  him  on  errands?  Had  they 
organised  theatre-parties  and  played  duets  on  the 
piano  ? 


No! 

'  Maynard  had  i 

[174] 


"Al"  Maynard  had  not  figured  as  a  possible  candi- 


CUPID     IN     BUTTONS 

date  until  the  engagement  was  announced.  Mrs.  Cole 
remembered  that  Fannie  had  once  spoken  of  Mr.  May- 
nard  as  a  "big  thing."  Mrs.  Williams  recalled  the 
fact  that  she  had  seen  them  talking  together  a  few 
times,  but  there  was  nothing  "spooney"  happening, 
or  she  would  have  noticed  it,  because  she  was  there  to 
notice  such  things. 

At  the  first  opportunity  they  cornered  Fannie  in 
the  parlour. 

"Is  it  true?"  asked  Mrs.  Williams,  as  she  took  hold 
of  the  hand  and  felt  to  see  if  the  ring  was  there. 

"Of  course  it's  true." 

"But  we  always  thought  it  would  be  Willie." 

"I'm  afraid  Willie  did,  too,  but — pshaw !" 

Mrs.  Williams  and  Mrs.  Cole  spent  two  hours  in 
analysing  that  significant  "pshaw." 

And  the  remarkable  part  of  it  is  that  "Bibbs"  alone 
had  comprehended  the  situation  from  the  very  start. 
"Bibbs"  was  of  the  size  of  twelve  years.  He  was  sus 
pected  to  be  about  sixteen.  He  had  the  self-assertion 
of  a  field-marshal  of  seventy-five.  The  English  uni 
form  to  which  they  had  condemned  him  could  not  hide 
his  largely  American  qualities.  He  was  easily  famil 
iar  with  all  who  rode  in  his  elevator,  and  his  impudence 
was  of  the  persuasive  and  unconscious  kind  which 
pleased  rather  than  offended.  "Bibbs"  was  a  priv- 
[175] 


CUPID     IN     BUTTONS 

ileged  character.  He  received  more  Christmas  pres 
ents  than  any  one  else  in  the  house.  If  the  manage 
ment  had  removed  him,  there  would  have  been  a  protest 
from  the  "guests." 

"Bibbs"  was  sitting  outside  the  elevator-cage,  wait 
ing  for  a  few  stragglers  and  night-hawks,  when  he 
told  why  the  news  had  not  surprised  him. 

"They  got  a  bright  lot  o'  people  around  this  hotel, 
I  don't  think,"  he  said.  "Everybody  had  Mr.  Bran- 
ford  picked.  Well,  I  knew  six  weeks  ago  that  he 
wasn't  in  it.  He  had  about  as  much  chance  as  I  had. 
Say,  the  very  first  day  that  Miss  Procter  come  here 
with  her  father,  I  took  Mr.  Maynard  up  the  next  trip, 
and  he  says  to  me,  'Who's  the  new  girl'?  I  told  him 
what  her  name  was  and  about  her  bein'  up  here  to 
study  music.  He  says,  'She's  all  right,  ain't  she'? 
I  told  him  I  didn't  have  any  fault  to  find.  As  long  as 
I've  been  here  that's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  him 
say  anything  about  a  girl  in  the  house  and  it  struck 
me  as  kind  o'  funny  at  the  time. 

"I  s'pose  it  was  about  a  week  after  that  that  both  of 
'em  got  in  the  elevator.  Mr.  Maynard  backed  away 
to  let  her  get  in  first,  and  he  was  purty  busy  sizin1  her 
up.  When  we  went  up  he  kept  an  eye  on  her.  I  let 
him  off  at  the  second,  and  he  tripped  in  gettin'  out,  and 
that  made  her  laugh.  I  guess  he  was  a  little  rattled. 
[176] 


CUPID    IN    BUTTONS 

I  says  to  her,  'That's  Mr.  Maynard.'  She  says,  'Who's 
Mr.  Maynard?'  'Oh,'  I  says,  'he  ain't  a  bad  fellow,' 
and  then  just  for  a  kid  I  told  her  that  she  was  the  only 
girl  we'd  ever  had  in  the  house  that  he'd  asked  any 
thing  about.  She  kept  the  car  waitin'  there  at  the 
third  an'  made  me  tell  what  he'd  asked.  I  says,  'Oh, 
he  just  asked  what  your  name  was  an'  said  you  was 
all  right.'  'Well,  the  idea !'  she  says.  You  know  how 
they  can  say  it.  I  ain't  been  runnin'  an  elevator  two 
years  for  nothin'.  If  you  want  to  stand  in  with  the 
women  you  just  tell  'em  all  the  nice  things  you  hear 
people  say  about  'em.  It  makes  'em  mad,  but  it  means 
a  Christmas  present,  just  the  same. 

"You  know  the  first  dance  we  had  after  Miss  Proc 
ter  showed  up?  Gee,  she  had  a  swell  make-up  that 
night!  Mr.  Branford  was  dead  stuck  on  her  from 
the  start.  I  could  see  that  easy  enough.  He  marched 
her  all  over  the  first  floor  here  to  show  her  off,  an'  he 
nearly  talked  an  arm  off  of  her.  I  didn't  know  where 
Mr.  Maynard  was.  I  s'pose  he  was  down  playin'  pool. 
When  I  took  her  up  that  night  she  asked  me  if  Mr. 
Maynard  ever  went  to  the  Saturday-night  dances.  I 
told  her  that  he  didn't  seem  to  be  much  on  the  girl 
game,  mebbe  because  he  was  a  little  bashful.  Next 
day  I  tackled  Mr.  Maynard.  I  says,  'They're  won- 
derin'  why  you  don't  show  up  at  the  dancec.'  'Who's 
[177] 


CUPID    IN    BUTTONS 

wonderin'?'  he  says.  'Oh,'  I  says,  'there's  a  certain  nice 
little  party  was  askin'  me  last  night  why  you  didn't 
come  to  the  hop.'  He  wanted  to  know  who  it  was,  an' 
I  told  him.  He  grinned  and  said  'Rats,'  but  I  just 
waited  to  see. 

"Sure  enough,  the  next  dance  he  come  out  in  his 
dress  suit  an'  he  certainly  looked  good,  but  the  chump 
loafed  around  the  office  instead  of  goin'  in  where  they 
was  dancin'.  After  a  while  she  come  out  with  Mr. 
Branford  an'  saw  Mr.  Maynard.  I  guess  she  must  have 
asked  Willie  for  an  introduction,  for  he  took  her  over 
an'  give  her  a  knock-down  to  Mr.  Maynard.  He  got 
as  red  as  a  beet.  I  think  she  had  to  do  most  of  the 
talkin'.  I  s'pose  he  didn't  ask  her  to  dance,  bein'  such 
a  dummy,  for  somebody  else  come  up  an'  got  her  away 
from  him,  an'  he  went  down  to  the  billiard-room.  But 
that  was  the  start  of  it. 

"Around  the  hotel  here,  everybody  said  it  was  Willie 
in  a  walk.  Do  you  know  why  I  never  thought  he  had 
a  show?  I'll  tell  you.  When  he'd  come  to  put  her  in 
the  elevator  and  send  her  up,  he'd  say  'Good-bye,'  soft, 
like  that,  you  know,  and  she'd  say  'Good-bye,'  just  as 
if  she  hated  to  tear  herself  away,  but  always  after  she 
got  past  the  first  floor  she'd  begin  to  laugh.  That 
didn't  look  right,  did  it?  I  could  see  that  she  was 
workin'  Willie.  He  was  all  right  to  get  flowers  from 
[178] 


CUPID    IN    BUTTONS 

an'  kill  time  with,  but,  do  you  know  it,  she  was  out  for 
the  big  man  from  the  first  minute  she  ever  saw  him. 
And  say,  he  was  the  slowest  to  get  next  of  anybody  I 
ever  saw.  If  she  hadn't  gone  out  after  him  I  don't 
believe  he'd  made  a  move.  He  never  seemed  to  know 
how  strong  he  was  with  that  girl. 

"Two  weeks  ago  here  I  had  to  put  him  right.  I  was 
takin'  him  up  one  evening  and  I  said,  'Mr.  Branford's 
rushin'  Miss  Procter  purty  hard  these  days.'  'Yes,'  he 
says,  'I  s'pose  they're  engaged.'  'Engaged  nothin' !'  I 
says.  'She  has  to  put  up  with  him  becuz  the  other  man 
around  here  don't  know  enough  to  give  her  a  good 
time.'  Purty  raw,  wusn't  it?  I  says,  'I'm  thinkin'  of 
savin'  enough  this  month  to  buy  a  few  flowers  for  her 
myself,  if  nobody  else  is  goin'  to  jump  in.'  I  just  give 
him  that  for  a  kind  of  a  tip,  without  lettin'  on  that  I 
meant  him.  He  tumbled  all  right.  Next  evening  she 
tackled  me,  up  on  her  floor,  and  told  me  to  tell 
Mr.  Maynard  that  she  wanted  to  see  him.  I  had 
one  of  the  bell-hops  bring  him  up  from  the  bill 
iard-room  and  I  delivered  him  to  her  on  the  third. 
She  had  a  big  bunch  of  flowers  that  somebody  had  sent 
to  her  and  she  wanted  him  to  come  up  and  have  one  put 
in  his  button-hole.  That  wus  the  first  time  he'd  ever 
sent  any  flowers  an'  I  don't  think  he'd  'a'  done  it  then 
if  I  hadn't  give  him  the  hunch.  He  was  the  slowest  I 
[179] 


CUPID    IN    BUTTONS 

ever  saw,  an'  I've  watched  a  good  many  of  'em  around 
here. 

"Well,  he  was  good  an'  jollied  that  night  when  I 
brought  him  down  with  that  flower  hangin'  on  his  coat. 
The  next  evening  after  that,  she  come  down  an'  Willie 
got  hold  of  her  an'  was  walkin'  her  around  here  when 
Mr.  Maynard  came  up.  Sore?  You  could  see  it  wor 
ried  him  to  have  her  payin'  any  attention  to  Willie,  but 
it  was  his  own  fault.  He  ought  to  have  been  on  the 
lookout  an'  got  her  first.  But  he  done  something  that 
paralysed  me.  He  walked  over  to  the  sofa  an'  started 
in  to  chin  that  thin  Morrison  girl  that  wears  the 
glasses.  I  says,  'Aha,  we've  got  the  old  boy  a  little 
jealous  at  last.'  He  was  talkin'  to  Miss  Morrison,  but 
all  the  time  he  was  keepin'  tab  on  Miss  Procter.  An' 
Miss  Procter  was  very  busy  with  little  Willie,  but  she 
was  watchin'  that  sofa  every  minute.  An'  me  back 
here,  takin'  it  all  in.  Willie  an'  the  Morrison  girl 
didn't  cut  any  figure  at  all.  They  thought  they  did, 
but  they  didn't. 

"Now  the  rest  of  this  is  on  the  q.  t.  and  Mr.  May 
nard  wouldn't  do  a  thing  to  me  if  he  thought  I'd  told 
anybody.  I  was  takin'  him  up  to  his  room  that  night 
an'  I  says,  "There's  a  girl  in  this  hotel  I  feel  sorry  for.' 
'Who's  that?'  he  says.  'W'y,'  I  says,  'it's  Miss  Procter. 
There  don't  seem  to  be  anybody  around  here  that's  got 
[180] 


CUPID    IN    BUTTONS 

the  sand  to  take  her  away  from  Mr.  Branford.'  'What 
do  you  know  about  it?'  he  says,  lookin'  at  me  kind  o' 
funny.  'I  don't  know  much,'  I  says,  'but  I  know  which 
man  she  likes  the  best  around  here.'  He  didn't  say 
anything.  We  come  to  his  floor  an'  I  opened  the  door, 
but  he  didn't  get  out  right  away.  'Are  you  sure?'  he 
says.  I  says,  'It's  a  cinch.'  He  says,  'I  want  to  leave 
a  7.30  call,'  an'  then  he  slipped  me  a  half. 

"Well,  say !  Next  night  he  was  faked  up  just  about 
right,  an'  he  sent  up  his  card  before  she  had  time  to 
come  down.  I  don't  know  what  he  took  to  give  him  his 
nerve.  I  didn't  think  he'd  come  around  to  it  for  a 
month,  but  you  can't  always  tell  about  these  quiet  fel 
lows.  He's  landed  her.  He  has,  for  a  fact.  It's  all 
over  the  hotel.  An'  they  say  Willie's  goin'  to  give  up 
his  room.  Willie's  all  right,  but  he  won't  do.  Say, 
don't  you  think  I'm  entitled  to  a  bid  to  the  wedding? 
Huh?" 


[181] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 


THE     BUELL    CHERRY 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Mr.  Buell,  as  he  stopped 
in  front  of  a  new  cottage  with  a  wrinkled  lawn  in  front 
of  it. 

The  breezes  came  freely  from  across  the  prairies. 
Over  toward  the  trolley  track  the  white  and  blue  flow 
ers  of  spring  peeped  timidly  from  the  new  grass.  Mrs. 
Buell  gave  every  symptom  of  delight.  She  knew  that' 
she  would  fall  in  love  with  the  place.  The  children 
would  have  a  play-ground  at  last.  Mr.  Buell  pre 
dicted  that  the  whole  family  would  become  brown  and 
heavy  from  living  in  the  suburbs. 

"  Domestic  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall." 

It  was  spring-time  when  the  Buells  moved  to  Arca 
dian  Heights,  a  mountainous  suburb,  rising  at  points 
to  a  height  of  fifteen  feet  above  the  level  of  the  lake. 

Arcadian  Heights  was  then  the  skeleton  framework 
of  a  town.  It  had  a  railway-station,  a  grass-plot  with 
the  name  of  the  suburb  tastefully  set  in  whitewashed 
[185] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

rocks,  and  the  streets  were  already  marked  out  and 
fringed  with  spidery  shade-trees. 

Cement  sidewalks  parted  the  bushy  weeds.  Rusted 
hydrants  lifted  themselves  above  the  dandelions  in  evi 
dence  of  the  fact  that  the  town  had  a  water-supply, 
even  if  it  had  no  one  to  use  the  water. 

A  dozen  new  houses  were  sprinkled  on  the  checker 
board  plain  to  the  west  of  the  station.  It  was  to  one 
of  these  houses  that  the  Buells  came  with  two  cavernous 
waggons  full  of  furniture.  They  had  given  up  the 
close  communion  of  life  in  a  flat  building  and  pre 
ferred  an  association  with  Nature. 

"  An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendships,  books, 
Ease  and  alternate  labour,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue  and  approving  heaven  !  " 

The  Buell  place  was  not  large,  as  compared  with  the 
country-seats  of  the  300-page  novel,  but  it  was-  all 
theirs. 

Every  spear  of  grass  assumed  a  pleasant  relation 
toward  the  new-comers. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buell  had  something  like  a  parental 
interest  in  the  slender  shade-trees  at  the  front,  the 
bushes  behind  the  house,  and  the  two  cherry-trees  which 
stood  near  the  walk  spurring  out  from  the  veranda. 
[186] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

Within  a  few  days  after  the  Buells  first  moved  in, 
one  of  these  trees  unfolded  a  few  milky  blossoms. 

"  For,  lo  !  the  winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and  gone  ;  the 
flowers  appear  on  the  earth  ;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land." 

The  Buells  did  not  hear  the  dove,  but  they  were  en 
tertained  nightly  by  the  frogs,  and  sitting  on  the  front 
veranda  at  dusk  all  four  would  sniff  hard  in  an  effort 
to  corroborate  Mrs.  Buell's  firm  belief  that  she  could 
detect  the  odour  of  cherry-blossoms. 

"  Now  came  still  evening  on,  and  twilight  grey 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad  ; 
Silence  accompany' d  ;  for  beast  and  bird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests, 
Were  slunk." 

Mrs.  Buell  plucked  a  few  of  the  blossoms  and  copied 
them  imperfectly  in  water-colours.  The  other  tree  pro 
duced  nothing  but  waxen  leaves.  Mr.  Buell  examined 
it  studiously  and  conferred  with  a  neighbour  who  had 
made  a  study  of  small  fruits,  and  it  was  decided  that 
it  would  produce,  in  time,  the  ox-heart  cherry,  which 
is  a  pleasant  edible. 

The  first  tree,  blossoming  so  promptly,  was  a  com- 
[187] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

mon  specimen  of  the  primus  cerasus,  the  fruit  being 
known  as  the  "cooking  cherry." 

"  Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast ; 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest." 

During  the  long  winter  the  trees  were  banked  about 
with  earth  and  kept  in  swaddling  clothes,  and  early  in 
the  second  spring  they  fulfilled  the  promise  of  the 
season  and  put  out  an  abundance  of  green  leaves.  A 
mother  guiding  the  steps  of  her  first-born  could  not 
have  been  more  solicitous  than  were  the  Buells  as  they 
searched  the  long  branches  and  found,  here  and  there, 
the  beginning  of  a  white  blossom. 

"The  ox-heart  tree  is  going  to  blossom,"  said  Mrs. 
Buell  to  the  children  one  afternoon. 

"The  ox-heart  tree  is  going  to  blossom!"  shouted 
the  children  to  Mr.  Buell  as  he  walked  over  from  the 
station  that  afternoon. 

"By  George,  the  ox-heart  tree  is  going  to  blossom," 
said  Mr.  Buell,  as  he  pulled  down  the  branches  and 
examined  them  v/ith  a  surgeonly  tenderness. 

"  It  is  the  month  of  June, 
The  month  of  leaves  and  roses, 
When  pleasant  sights  salute  the  eyes 
And  pleasant  scents  the  noses" 
[188] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

Yet  the  month  of  June  held  one  cruel  disappoint 
ment  for  the  Buell  family. 

The  ox-heart  tree  which  had  blossomed  so  sturdily, 
showed  not  a  cherry.  The  other  tree  bore  thirteen. 
For  a  long  time  the  count  was  twelve,  but  one  day 
little  Grace,  who  had  sharper  eyes  than  the  others,  dis 
covered  one  cherry  on  a  high  branch,  partly  hidden  by 
the  leaves,  and  thirteen  was  thereafter  taken  as  the 
official  count. 

The  cherries  ripened  one  at  a  time  and  were  de 
voured.  An  equitable  division  was  made,  although 
thirteen  cherries  cannot  be  divided  exactly  by  four. 

It  will  be  understood  that  in  the  spring  of  the  third 
year  there  was  a  lack  of  confidence  in  the  ox-heart  tree. 
It  had  grown  taller  and  extended  its  branches  and  the 
blossoms  hung  rich  and  heavy,  but  the  Buells  did  not 
permit  themselves  to  be  lifted  by  vain  hopes.  They 
were  waiting  for  it  to  perform  actual  service. 

The  common  tree,  producing  the  cooking  cherries, 
blossomed  more  bounteously  than  ever  before,  and,  it 
may  be  added,  bore  nearly  four  quarts  of  cherries, 
which  were  put  into  pies. 

But  what  of  the  other? 

The  white  petals  fell  and  there  was  a  period  of  un 
certainty.  One  day  Mr.  Buell  (credit  where  credit  isi 
due ! )  discovered  on  the  eastward  branch  which  ex- 
[189] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

tended  toward  the  walk,  one  small,  hard  cherry.  It 
seemed  normal  and  without  defect. 

After  three  years  of  care  and  nursing  the  ox-heart 
tree  was  about  to  yield  the  first  evidence  of  gratitude. 

From  one  stand-point  the  Buell  cherry  was  a  small 
and  insignificant  part  of  the  vegetable  growth  of 
North  America.  From  the  other  stand-point  it  was  the 
symbol  of  all  the  beauty  in  Nature's  excellent  laws. 
It  was  the  essential  poetry  in  the  quatrain  of  seasons. 

"  Warmed  by  the  sun 
And  wet  by  the  dew. 
It  grew,  it  grew — 
Listen  to  my  tale  of  ?voe." 

All  values  are  comparative. 

The  Buells  had  been  fruit-growers  for  three  years, 
and  at  last  they  had  produced  one  edible  cherry. 

According  to  market  quotations  the  value  of  this 
cherry  was  the  decimal  part  of  one  cent.  The  Buells 
justly  regarded  it  as  a  priceless  treasure.  The  chil 
dren  stood  guard  over  it,  to  keep  the  robins  away,  and 
there  was  never  a  day  that  the  family  did  not  gather 
at  the  tree  and  remark  the  growing  blush. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  the  cherry?  It  was  too 
valuable  and  epoch-marking  to  be  gulped  down  in  the 
ordinary  off-hand  manner.  Rabelais  spoke  of  a  man 
[190] 


THE     BUELL     CHERRY 

who  would  take  three  bites  at  a  cherry,  but  Mr.  Buell 
could  not  see  a  fair  plan  of  division  among  four. 

Like  a  gallant  man  and  a  good  husband,  he  decreed 
that  Mrs.  Buell  should  eat  the  cherry. 

The  ceremony  of  the  eating  was  to  be  as  follows: 
Mrs.  Buell's  sister  and  the  sister's  husband  were  to 
come  out  from  town  for  Sunday  dinner.  At  the  serv 
ing  of  dessert  the  girl  was  to  bring  in  the  cherry  on 
the  genuine  Delft  plate  which  Mrs.  Buell's  brother  had 
brought  from  Holland.  Mr.  Buell  would  make  a  few 
remarks,  touching  on  the  sweetness  of  life  in  the 
suburbs  and  the  felicities  of  horticulture.  Mrs.  Buell 
would  then  bite  the  cherry  to  the  accompaniment  of 
applause. 

It  was  eventide.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Buell  sat  on  the  cool 
veranda,  arranging  for  the  celebration.  Suddenly 
they  were  interrupted. 

"Mr.  Buell,  that  was  a  mighty  fine  cherry." 

There  stood  the  man  who  delivered  the  papers.  He 
was  smacking  his  lips. 

Mr.  Buell  looked  to  where  the  branch  of  the  tree 
was  outlined  against  the  darkening,  turquoise  sky. 
The  cherry  was  gone !  A  low  moan  escaped  him. 

He  turned  to  where  his  wife  sat.  She  was  mute  and 
staring.  Then  she  saw  his  white  face  and  burst  into 
convulsive  sobbing. 

[191] 


THE    BUELL    CHERRY 

"  This,  this  is  misery — the  last,  the  worst 
That  man  can  feel" 

"Walk  down  to  the  gate  with  me,  Jefferson,  and  I'll 
pay  you,"  said  Mr.  Buell,  taking  him  by  the  arm. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Buell?"  asked 
Jefferson,  looking  back  at  her. 

"She  has  bad  news.  One  of  her  cousins  is  dead — 
out  in  Kansas." 


[192] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY5 

The  "Pansy"  saloon  is  directly  across  the  street  from 
the  entrance  to  Sembrich's  Hall,  where  the  Ludolfia 
Pleasure  Club  gave  its  masquerade  ball.  "Matty" 
Swinton,  Jimmy  Flynn,  and  "Fatty"  Eldridge  were 
sitting  in  the  "Pansy"  playing  seven-up  around  a 
smeary  table  as  the  maskers  arrived. 

A  masquerade  ball  at  Sembrich's  Hall  is  worth  going 
to  see.  It  puts  a  few  hours  of  actual  splendour  into 
the  lives  of  toilsome  young  men  and  young  women. 
The  laundry-girl  reigns  for  one  night  as  Marie  An 
toinette  or  else  as  the  fated  Queen  of  Scots.  The  girls 
employed  at  the  Southwest  Division  Louvre  dry-goods 
store  forget  their  gingham  aprons,  their  convict  dress, 
and  the  wearing  click  of  the  cash  trolley,  for  they  are 
transformed  into  flower-girls,  ladies  of  the  court, 
sefioritas,  Japanese  geishas  and  what  not  that  is  be 
spangled  and  bewitching. 

There  is  a  little  shop  just  around  the  corner  from 
Sembrich's  Hall  at  which  masquerade  costumes  of  the 
most  astounding  brilliancy  may  be  had  for  a  small  con 
sideration. 

[195] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY" 

The  young  men  seem  to  prefer  comic  parts.  They 
come  to  the  hall  in  the  fantastic  clothes  of  harlequins, 
clowns,  burlesque  German  and  Irish  emigrants,  or  else 
as  gaudy  negro  minstrels.  When  they  put  on  these 
fancy  costumes  they  seem  to  put  on  the  carnival  spirit, 
too,  for  the  gayety  at  a  Sembrich  Hall  masquerade  is 
simply  boisterous.  These  young  men,  ordinarily  shy 
and  backward  in  the  presence  of  young  women,  cavort 
and  dance,  beat  one  another  with  slap-sticks,  indulge 
in  crazy  pantomine,  and  pay  exaggerated  devotion  to 
the  masked  beauties. 

It  must  be  confessed,  also,  that  the  girls  enter  into 
the  romp  with  no  reserve  of  maidenly  dignity.  For 
John  Swensen,  the  grocer's  clerk,  to  put  his  arm 
around  Hilda  Jensen,  the  little  bonnet-trimmer,  would 
be  a  subj  ect  for  scandal,  but  for  the  gallant  bull-fighter 
to  caress  the  senorita  is  mere  accuracy  of  romance  and 
no  one  is  shocked. 

Be  assured,  too,  that  John  Swensen  and  all  the  meek 
and  timorous  young  men  have  now  become  the  most 
audacious  cavaliers.  The  young  men  of  to-day  in 
their  sombre  store-clothes  still  have  the  fine  manners 
and  chivalry  of  the  Middle  Ages  in  their  hearts,  for 
when  the  opportunity  comes,  as  at  Sembrich's  Hall, 
they  put  on  the  doublet  and  hose,  velvet  jackets,  long 
tan  boots,  plumed  hats,  gauntlets,  ruffled  waists,  chain 
[196] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY" 

armour,  jewelled  belts  and  hilts,  Spanish  cloaks,  mili 
tary  helmets,  Elizabethan  ruffs,  and  all  the  other  finery 
to  be  rented  at  the  little  shop  around  the  corner. 

Certainly  a  masquerade  ball  at  Sembrich's  Hall  is 
worth  going  to  see.  One  will  be  pleasantly  amazed  to 
find  such  a  magnificent  pageant  so  near  the  "Pansy" 
saloon,  which  fronts  on  a  muddy  street  and  stands  in 
a  row  of  hideously  plain  and  commonplace  wooden 
streets.  Sembrich's  building,  the  neighbourhood  pride, 
is  a  large  box  made  of  bricks. 

"Matty"  Swinton,  Jimmy  Flynn,  "Butch"  Hanton, 
and  "Fatty"  Eldridge  turned  from  their  cards  oc 
casionally  to  look  at  another  noisy  group  of  maskers 
passing  up  the  lighted  stairway  across  the  street. 

"They're  goin'  to  have  a  great  push  over  there  to 
night,"  said  "Fatty." 

"Ye— ah,"  said  "Butch"  Hanton,  studying  his 
cards.  "I'm  goin'  over  presently,  and  if  it  don't  suit 
me  I  think  I'll  stop  it." 

"You'd  better  keep  away,"  remarked  "Matty" 
Swinton.  "I  see  you  try  to  stop  somethin'  once  be 
fore." 

"Yes,  you  must  like  to  ride  in  them  waggons,"  put 
in  the  bartender,  whose  name  was  Joe. 

Every  one  except  "Butch"  had  to  laugh.  The  bar 
tender's  reference  to  the  "waggon"  recalled  the  fact 
[197] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY" 

that  "Butch"  had  been  taken  to  the  station  one  night 
for  attempting  to  force  his  way  into  a  wedding-re 
ception. 

"I  had  my  peaches  that  night,"  said  "Butch." 
"They'll  never  land  me  that  way  again." 

"Go  on  and  play,"  growled  Jimmy  Flynn. 

The  four  card-players  in  the  "Pansy"  were  not  the 
kind  of  young  men  to  put  on  fancy  costumes  and  go 
to  masquerade  parties.  They  were  too  sophisticated 
and  tried-out  to  care  for  such  childish  diversions,  and 
they  were  glad  of  it. 

They  felt  a  superiority  over  the  young  fellows  who 
acted  as  escorts  to  the  laundry-girls  and  those  who 
worked  at  the  Louvre.  They  would  stand  in  front  of 
the  "Pansy"  and  watch  the  couples  pass  by  and  would 
feel  a  sort  of  malicious  pity  for  them. 

The  door  opened  and  "Butch"  Hanton  cursed  fer 
vently  as  he  saw  two  clowns  enter.  They  wore  baggy 
suits  of  spotted  design  and  little  peaked  white  hats. 
Their  faces  were  powdered  and  streaked.  One  was  a 
large  man  and  he  was  especially  ridiculous  in  such 
a  costume. 

"Hello,  Choe,"  he  shouted,  and  there  was  a  rattling 
German  guttural  in  his  voice.  "Let  us  haf  two  peers." 

"Good  crowd  over  there  to-night?"  asked  the  bar 
tender. 

[198] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY' 

"Fine — ef  'rybody  hafing  a  goot  time." 
The  four  card-players  had  dropped  their  cards  and 
were  gazing  at  the  two  strange  visitors.     Evidently 
their  contempt  was  too  deep  for  expression. 

The  two  clowns  drank  their  beer.  The  larger  one 
benevolently  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  other 
and  they  began  to  sing.  To  the  unaccustomed  ear  it 
sounded  thus,  and  they  did  it  with  tremendous  vigour : 

"Hi-lee!  Hi-lo! 
Hi-lee!  Hi-lo! 
By  untz  gates  immer, 
Gay-linger,  Gay-schlimmer, 
Hi-lee!  Hi-lo! 
Hi-lee!  Hi-lo! 
By  untz  gates  immer  ve-so  !  " 

As  they  concluded  the  last  line  "Butch"  Hanton 
threw  a  piece  of  chalk  (used  for  marking  scores)  and 
hit  the  big  clown  on  the  ear.  The  big  fellow  turned  to 
the  four  at  the  table  and  bowed.  "Goot  shot,  poys," 
he  said.  "Come  and  haf  a  drink." 

The  four  exchanged  sullen  glances  and  did  not 
move. 

"You  fellows  ain't  stopped,  have  you?"  asked  Joe. 
"Come  up  and  have  somethin'  on  Chris.  Chris,  these 
boys  are  all  friends  of  mine.  Shake  hands  with  'em." 
[199] 


AN    INCIDENT    IN    THE    "PANSY5 

Chris  extended  his  hand  toward  Jimmy  Flynn,  who 
responded  unwillingly. 

"Say !  Here !"  Jimmy  exclaimed,  as  he  felt  some 
thing  close  on  his  hand  until  the  bones  ground  to 
gether. 

Chris  released  him  and  seized  "Butch"  by  the  hand. 

"For  God's  sake !"  gasped  "Butch,"  crouching  half 
way  to  the  floor.  With  a  backward  leap  he  released 
his  hand  and  rubbed  it,  while  he  chewed  his  lip  with 
pain. 

Chris  started  toward  "Matty,"  who  said,  "Nix! 
Nix !"  as  if  in  anger,  and  shifted  toward  the  head  of 
the  bar. 

"Say,  you  big  sausage,  what  are  you  tryin'  to  do?" 
demanded  "Butch,"  glaring  at  the  clown. 

Chris  smiled  horribly  through  the  chalk  and  said: 
"Ho!  Sho!  It  is  all  in  fun.  You  shouldt  not  get 
mat." 

"Don't  get  sore  about  a  little  thing  like  that,"  said 
Joe,  who  was  setting  the  drinks  along  the  bar. 

"I  don't  like  them  funny  plays,"  said  "Butch," 
working  his  fingers. 

"Go  on,  Chris,  and  show  them  how  well  you  can 
lift,"  said  Joe,  after  the  drinks  had  been  disposed  of. 

"No,  you  don't,"  objected  "Butch,"  and  he  backed 
away. 

[200] 


AN     INCIDENT    IN     THE     "PANSY" 

"It  iss  all  right,"  urged  Chris,  following  him  up. 
"It  will  not  hurt." 

He  reached  forward  suddenly  and  caught  "Butch" 
by  the  shoulder. 

"Stant  still,"  he  said. 

"Naw — naw.     Don't  get  funny." 

"Go  on,"  put  in  the  bartender,  "Chris  won't  hurt 
you." 

"Butch"  looked  sheepishly  at  the  others,  and  then, 
following  directions,  he  stiffened  himself  and  allowed 
Chris  to  take  hold  of  him  by  the  ankles  and  lift  him 
into  the  air,  very  slowly,  until  his  feet  were  on  a  level 
with  the  card-table. 

"Ah — h — h — h — h — h !"  said  Joe,  admiringly. 

Chris  lowered  his  man  a  few  inches,  and  then  with  a 
sudden  upward  movement,  he  tossed  "Butch"  three  feet 
or  more  toward  the  ceiling — as  he  would  have  tossed 
a  ten-pound  bell. 

"Butch"  fell  on  all  fours  and  scrambled  to  his  feet. 
Joe  was  doubled  over  behind  the  bar,  barking  with 
laughter.  The  others  were  laughing,  too — even  Chris, 
who  stood  a  few  feet  away,  with  his  big  shoulders  heav 
ing  under  the  spotted  suit. 

"I  won't  stand  for  it!"  shouted  "Butch,"  rushing 
toward  the  big  German.    "Fatty"  grabbed  him  by  the 
arm  and  said,  "Aw,  come  off !    Don't  start  nothin'." 
[201] 


AN     INCIDENT    IN    THE    "  PANSY r 

"I  let  no  fresh  guy  do  that  to  me." 

"On  the  dead,  I  never  see  a  man  get  sore  so  quick," 
said  Joe,  his  eyes  full  of  tears  from  the  attack  of 
laughter.  "Chris  meant  it  in  fun — huh,  Chris  ?" 

"Sure.    All  in  fun.    Goot-bye,  Choe." 

The  two  clowns  went  out  the  front  way,  and  Joe 
gave  another  howl. 

"You  put  that  Dutchman  on  to  me !"  said  "Butch," 
who  was  hot  and  nervous. 

"What  are  you  talkin'  about  ?  He  done  that  all  in 
fun.  Do  you  know  him?  Chris  Schleger — the  best 
weight-lifter  on  the  west  side.  I  seen  him  beat  a  pro 
fessional  one  night.  You  can't  tell  about  a  guy  just 
becuz  you  see  him  in  one  o'  them  suits." 

"The  Dutchman's  all  right,"  said  Jimmy  Flynn,  and 
he  laughed. 

Then  all  of  them  laughed — all  except  "Butch." 

The  Ludolfia  Pleasure  Club  gave  its  masquerade 
without  interruption. 


MISS    TYNDALL'S     PICTURE 


MISS    TYNDALL'S    PICTURE 

(Scene — The  parlour  of  the  Hazelden  house,  near 
the  north  shore.  Mrs.  Hazelden  is  seated  by  the  win 
dow,  reading  a  magazine.  The  door-bell  rings.  Mrs. 
Hazelden  lowers  the  magazine  and  listens.  A  mumble 
of  voices  outside.  The  housemaid  comes  to  the  door, 
followed  by  Mr.  Custer,  who  offers  to  Mrs.  Hazelden 
a  slight  and  embarrassed  bow.  Mrs.  Hazelden  rises.) 

The  Housemaid:  "He  wants  to  see  about  the 
house." 

Mrs.  Hazelden:    "Oh!" 

Mr.  Custer :  "Yes — ah — they  told  me  at  the  agency 
that  you  wished  to  rent  your  house  for  the  summer. 
I — my  name  is  Custer." 

Mrs.  H.:    "Yes?    Won't  you  be  seated ?" 

(They  sit.) 

Mr.  C.:  "My  uncle,  Judge  Custer,  of  Custer  & 
Bland,  you ?" 

Mrs.  H. :    "Oh,  yes,  indeed,  quite  often." 

Mr.  C. :  "I — ah — my  brother  and  his  wife  wish  to 
spend  the  summer  here.  My  brother  is  a  professor  in 
Runyon  College.  We  thought  it  would  be  pleasant 
[  205  ] 


MISS    TYNDALL'S    PICTURE 

to  take  a  house  for  the  summer — something  pretty  well 
away  from  town  and  near  the  lake.  I'm  tired  of  hotel 
life,  and,  besides,  I  belong  to  the  Edgwater  Golf  Club 
and  could  put  him  up  there.  I  thought  it  would 

Mrs.  H. :  "I'm  sure  it  would  be.  You  would  like 
this  neighbourhood,  too.  It's  so  near  the  lake — you 
can  see  it  from  the  upper  windows — and  it's  entirely 
away  from  the  traffic  and  the  smoke." 

Mr.  C. :    "Yes'm." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Really,  you  know,  I've  never  had  a 
house  that  I  liked  any  better.  I'd  be  very  well  satis 
fied  to  remain  here  all  summer,  but  Mr.  Hazelden  has 
a  cottage  on  Lake  Tomowoc,  and  he  is  very  fond  of 
boating  and  fishing,  so  he  wants  to  be  there  all  sum 
mer." 

Mr.  C.:    "Yes'm." 

Mrs.  H. :  "I  suppose  you  want  to  look  through  the 
rooms.  (She  rises.)  There  are  no  children?" 

Mr.  C.  (rising) :  "No,  only  the  three  of  us. 
(Looking  around.)  This  is  a  pretty  room,  isn't  it?  I 
like  the  high  ceilings.  Hello!  (Walks  over  and  looks 
at  a  mounted  photograph  on  the  mantel.)  That's  Miss 
Tyndall,  isn't  it?" 

Mrs.  H.  (cordially)  :  "Why,  do  you  know  Fannie 
Tyndall?" 

[206] 


MISS    TYNDALL'S    PICTURE 

Mr.  C. :  "I  met  her  a  few  times  on  the  south  side 
—with  Jim  Wescott." 

Mrs.  H.  (less  cordially):    "Oh!" 

Mr.  C. :     "You  know  they  were " 

Mrs.  H. :  "Yes,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  suppose  you 
heard  why  it  was  broken  off." 

Mr.  C.  (calmly)  :  "I  heard  something  of  the  de 
tails — yes." 

Mrs.  H. :    "His  side  of  the  story,  I  presume." 

Mr.  C. :  "Well— yes.  Jim  didn't  tell  me  himself, 
but  I  think  it  came  from  him." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Do  you  know  Mr.  Wescott  quite 
well?" 

Mr.  C. :  "Yes,  I  might  say  that  I  know  him  inti 
mately.  We  went  to  school  together." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Indeed !  Well,  what's  wrong  with  him, 
anyway  ?" 

Mr.  C.  (surprised)  :  "Wrong  with  Jim  ?  It  never 
occurred  to  me  that  there  was  anything  wrong  with 
him." 

Mrs.  H. :     "Isn't  he— queer?" 

Mr.  C. :  "I  don't  think  so.  Of  course,  he's  a  stu 
dious  fellow,  and  isn't  quite  as — effervescent,  you  might 
say,  as  most  of  the  other  fellows  in  his  set,  but  he's  all 
right." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Well,  he  was  out  here  with  Fannie  two  or 
[207] 


MISS    TYNDALL'S    PICTURE 

three  times  last  summer — they  came  out  to  the  golf  club 
— and,  do  you  know,  the  man  actually  embarrassed  me. 
Whenever  you  spoke  to  him  he  had  such  a  cold,  in- 
different  way  of  smiling  back  at  you  and  saying  'Oh, 
indeed' !  and  then  he  would  wait  for  you  to  say  some 
thing  more.  He  impressed  me  as  being  rather — well, 
I  should  say — conceited.  He  always  seemed  inclined 
to  patronise  women  and  treat  them  as  creatures  of 
minor  intelligence,  and  yet  he  never  said  anything 
bright  or  clever  himself  to  back  up  this  calm  assump 
tion  of  superiority.  I  was  perfectly  delighted  when  I 
learned  that  the  engagement  had  been  broken  off. 
Fannie  is  such  a  lovely  girl." 

Mr.  C. :    "She's  a  very  pretty  girl,  certainly." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Yes,  and  she's  just  as  nice  as  she  is 
pretty.  You  know  the  Tyndalls  used  to  be  neighbours 
of  ours  on  the  south  side,  and  I  came  to  know  them  ever 
so  well.  I  always  said  that  Fannie  was  the  dearest 
thing  that  ever  lived." 

Mr.  C.:  "Isn't  she  inclined  to  be  a  little  bit- 
lively?" 

Mrs.  H.:  "Oh—h!  No,  indeed!  Why,  reaUyl 
In  what  way?" 

Mr.  C. :  "Well,  perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  used  that 
word.  I'll  admit  I  don't  know  her  very  well.  She's 
charming  enough,  I  suppose,  but  I've  understood  that 
[2081 


MISS    TYNDALL'S     PICTURE 

Jim  broke  the  engagement  because  she  received  too 
many  attentions  from  other  men." 

Mrs.  H.  (with  flashing  eye)  :  "Jim  broke  the  en 
gagement!  Jim,  indeed!  Why,  Mr. — ah " 

Mr.  C. :    "Custer." 

Mrs.  H.:  "Did  he  tell  you,  Mr.  Custer,  that  he 
broke  the  engagement?" 

Mr.  C. :  "No,  he  hasn't  said  much  about  it  to  any 
one,  but  that's  what  I  understood." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Well,  there  isn't  a  word  of  it  so.  I 
heard  the  straight  of  it  from  one  of  Fannie's  chums. 
It  seems  that  he  started  in  to  lecture  Fannie  about 
dancing  with  two  or  three  men  he  didn't  like,  and  she 
simply  refused  to  be  lectured,  and  ended  the  engage 
ment  then  and  there.  I  think  that's  what  any  plucky 
girl  should  have  done,  under  the  circumstances." 

Mr.  C. :  "Isn't  it  possible  that  Jim  knew  more  about 
these  young  men  than  Miss  Tyndall  did?" 

Mrs.  H.:     "Oh,  pshaw!" 

Mr.  C. :  "Oh,  well,  it's  all  over  now,  and  I  honestly 
think  it  was  better  for  all  concerned.  From  what  I 
learned  of  Miss  Tyndall,  I  don't  think  she  would  have 
made  the  right  kind  of  a  wife  for  him." 

Mrs.  H.  (slightly  ruffled)  :     "Well — the  right  kind 
— what  do  you  mean  by  that?     I  suppose  she  wasn't 
good  enough  for  Mr.  Wescott." 
[209] 


MISS    TYNDALL'S     PICTURE 

Mr.  C. :  "Well,  I  think  she  was  too  frivolous.  I 
don't  consider  frivolity  a  crime,  but  in  some  cases  it 
ought  to  be  a  hindrance  to  matrimony.  She  was  a 
charming  girl,  in  many  respects,  but  (laughmg)  it 
always  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  a  sort  of — matinee 
education,  as  you  might  say.  I  don't  think  she  aspired 
to  anything  higher  than  chocolate  creams." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Great  heavens,  Mr.  Custer,  she's  a  girl! 
She's  hardly  nineteen.  If  she  had  been  a  studious 
thing  with  spectacles,  and  her  hair  all  plastered  down, 
do  you  suppose  Mr.  Wescott  would  have  ever  given 
her  a  second  look  ?  No,  indeed  !  I  don't  mean  any  dis 
respect  to  your  friend,  but,  really,  I  think  it  would 
have  been  a  positive  calamity  for  Fannie  to  have  mar 
ried  that  man.  I  don't  understand  why  she  was  at 
tracted  to  him  in  the  first  place.  He  isn't  handsome, 
is  he?" 

Mr.  C. :  "No,  he  isn't  particularly  handsome,  but 
he  isn't  repulsive,  either.  He  has  the  usual  number  of 
features.  He's  a  brainy  chap." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Oh,  you'd  be  sure  to  take  the  man's 
part.  (Bell  rings.)  I  wonder  if  that's  some  one  else 
to  see  the  house.  We've  been  standing  here " 

Mr.  C. :  "Yes,  I've  been  listening  to  you  slander 
poor  Jim." 

[210] 


MISS    TYN  BALL'S    PICTURE 

Mrs.  H. :  "Well,  really,  Mr.  Custer,  if  you  knew 
Fannie  as  I  do,  you'd  be  out  of  patience,  too,  with  any 
man  who  didn't  appreciate  her.  (Housemaid  tiptoes 
in  and  hands  a  large,  square  envelope  to  Mrs.  Hazel- 
den.)  It  was  the  postman.  Thank  you,  Mary.  Mr. 
Wescott  may  be  popular  among  the  men,  but — ooh ! 
he's  such  an  iceberg.  (Drawing  an  inner  envelope  from 
the  large  one. )  Fannie  never  would  have  been  happy 
with  such  an  unsympathetic — Mercy  me !"  (Staring 
at  the  card  folder  which  she  has  taken  from  the  en 
velope.) 

Mr.  C. :    "What — er — excuse  me." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Oh— h— h !  If  that— well !  What  do 
you  think?" 

Mr.  C. :    "I  don't  know,  I'm  sure." 

Mrs.  H.  (shaking  the  card  folder  at  him)  :  "Do  you 
know  what  this  is?" 

Mr.  C. :    "I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

Mrs.  H. :    "A  wedding-invitation." 

Mr.  C.:    "Theirs?" 

Mrs.  H. :  "Theirs.  (Reading.)  'To  the  marriage 
of  their  daughter  Fannie  to  Mr.  James  Duncan  Wes 
cott' — and  she  said  she'd  never" — (compresses  her 
lips). 

Mr.  C. :  "Evidently  there  has  been  a  reconcilia 
tion." 

[211] 


MISS     TYNDALL'S     PICTURE 

Mrs.  H. :    "Evidently.    What  could  that  child  have 
been  thinking  of  ?     (Sighs.)     Poor  Fannie!" 
Mr.  C. :    "Poor — I  beg  your  pardon." 
Mrs.  H. :    "Isn't  that  just  like  a  girl?" 
Mr.  C. :    "I  suppose  so.    I  didn't  think  Jim  would, 
though." 

Mrs.  H. :  "Oh,  pshaw !  Jim!  Jim,  indeed !  Mr. 
Custer,  women  are  deceived  once  in  a  while,  but  every 
man  is  a  perfect  greenhorn.  Come  on.  I  want  to  show 
you  the  dining-room." 


[212] 


MR.     PAYSON'S     SATIRICAL 
CHRISTMAS 


MR.     PAYSON'S     SATIRICAL 
CHRISTMAS 

Mr.  Sidney  Payson  was  full  of  the  bitterness  of 
Christmas-tide.  Mr.  Payson  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
loved  to  tell  invalids  that  they  were  not  looking  as  well 
as  usual,  and  who  frightened  young  husbands  by  pre 
dicting  that  they  would  regret  having  married.  He 
seldom  put  the  seal  of  approval  on  any  human  under 
taking.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  with  him  that  he 
never  failed  to  find  the  sinister  motive  for  the  act  which 
other  people  applauded.  Some  of  his  pious  friends 
used  to  say  that  Satan  had  got  the  upper  hand  with 
him,  but  there  were  others  who  indicated  that  it  might 
be  Bile. 

Think  of  the  seething  wrath  and  the  sense  of  hu 
miliation  with  which  Mr.  Sidney  Payson  set  about  his 
Christmas-shopping!  In  the  first  place,  to  go  shop 
ping  for  Christmas-presents  was  the  most  conventional 
thing  that  any  one  could  do,  and  Mr.  Payson  hated 
conventionalities.  For  another  thing,  the  giving  of 
Christmas-presents  carried  with  it  some  testimony  of 
[215] 


MR.    PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

affection,  and  Mr.  Payson  regarded  any  display  of 
affection  as  one  of  the  crude  symptoms  of  barbarous 
taste. 

If  he  could  have  assembled  his  relatives  at  a  Christ 
mas-gathering  and  opened  a  few  old  family  wounds, 
reminding  his  brother  and  his  two  sisters  of  some  of 
their  youthful  follies,  thus  shaming  them  before  the 
children,  Mr.  Sidney  Payson  might  have  managed  to 
make  out  a  rather  merry  Christmas.  Instead  of  that, 
he  was  condemned  to  go  out  and  purchase  gifts  and  be 
as  cheaply  idiotic  as  the  other  wretched  mortals  with 
whom  he  was  being  carried  along.  No  wonder  that 
he  chafed  and  rebelled  and  vainly  wished  that  he 
could  hang  crape  on  every  Christmas-tree  in  the  uni 
verse. 

Mr.  Sidney  Payson  hated  his  task  and  he  was  puz 
zled  by  it.  After  wandering  through  two  stores  and 
looking  in  at  twenty  windows  he  had  been  unable  to 
make  one  selection.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all  the 
articles  offered  for  sale  were  singularly  and  uniformly 
inappropriate.  The  custom  of  giving  was  a  farce  in 
itself,  and  the  store-keepers  had  done  what  they  could 
to  make  it  a  sickening  travesty. 

"I'll  go  ahead  and  buy  a  lot  of  things   at  hap 
hazard,"  he  said  to  himself.     "I  don't  care  a  hang 
whether  they  are  appropriate  or  not." 
[216] 


MR.    PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

At  that  moment  he  had  an  inspiration.  It  was  an 
inspiration  which  could  have  come  to  no  one  except 
Mr.  Sidney  Payson.  It  promised  a  speedy  end  to 
shopping  hardships.  It  guaranteed  him  a  Christmas 
to  his  own  liking. 

He  was  bound  by  family  custom  to  buy  Christmas- 
presents  for  his  relatives.  He  had  promised  his  sister 
that  he  would  remember  every  one  in  the  list.  But 
he  was  under  no  obligation  to  give  presents  that  would 
be  welcome.  Why  not  give  to  each  of  his  relatives 
some  present  which  would  be  entirely  useless,  inap 
propriate,  and  superfluous  ?  It  would  serve  them  right 
for  involving  him  in  the  childish  performances  of  the 
Christmas-season.  It  would  be  a  burlesque  on  the 
whole  nonsensicality  of  Christmas-giving.  It  would 
irritate  and  puzzle  his  relatives  and  probably  deepen 
their  hatred  of  him.  At  any  rate,  it  would  be  a  satire 
on  a  silly  tradition,  and,  thank  goodness,  it  wouldn't 
be  conventional. 

Mr.  Sidney  Payson  went  into  the  first  department- 
store  and  found  himself  at  the  book-counter. 

"Have  you  any  work  which  would  be  suitable 
for  an  elderly  gentleman  of  studious  habits  and  deep 
religious  convictions?"  he  asked. 

"We  have  here  the  works  of  Flavius  Josephus  in 
two  volumes,"  replied  the  young  woman. 
[217] 


MR.    PAYSON'S    CHRISTMAS 

"All  right ;  I'll  take  them,"  he  said.  "I  want  them 
for  my  nephew  Fred.  He  likes  Indian  stories." 

The  salesgirl  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"Now,  then,  I  want  a  love-story,"  said  Mr.  Payson. 
"I  have  a  maiden  sister  who  is  president  of  a  Ruskin 
club  and  writes  essays  about  Buddhism.  I  want  to  give 
her  a  book  that  tells  about  a  girl  named  Mabel  who  is 
loved  by  Sir  Hector  Something-or-Other.  Give  me  a 
book  that  is  full  of  hugs  and  kisses  and  heaving  bos 
oms  and  all  that  sort  of  rot.  Get  just  as  far  away 
from  Ibsen  and  Howells  and  Henry  James  as  you  can 
possibly  get." 

"Here  is  a  book  that  all  the  girls  in  the  store  say  is 
very  good,"  replied  the  young  woman.  "It  is  called 
'Virgie's  Betrothal;  or,  the  Stranger  at  Birchwood 
Manor.'  It's  by  Imogene  Sybil  Beauclerc." 

"If  it's  what  it  sounds  to  be,  it's  just  what  I  want," 
said  Payson,  showing  his  teeth  at  the  young  woman 
with  a  devilish  glee.  "You  say  the  girls  here  in  the 
store  like  it?" 

"Yes;  Miss  Simmons,  in  the  handkerchief-box  de 
partment,  says  it's  just  grand." 

"Ha!     All  right!     I'll  take  it." 

He  felt  his  happiness  rising  as  he  went  out  of  the 
store.  The  joy  shone  in  his  face  as  he  stood  at  the 
skate-counter. 

[218] 


MR.    PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

"I  have  a  brother  who  is  forty-six  years  old  and 
rather  fat,"  he  said  to  the  salesman.  "I  don't  sup 
pose  he's  been  on  the  ice  in  twenty -five  years.  He  wears 
a  No.  9  shoe.  Give  me  a  pair  of  skates  for  him." 

A  few  minutes  later  he  stood  at  the  silk-counter. 

"What  are  those  things?"  he  asked,  pointing  to 
some  gaily  coloured  silks  folded  in  boxes. 

"Those  are  scarfs." 

"Well,  if  you've  got  one  that  has  all  the  colours 
of  the  rainbow  in  it,  I'll  take  it.  I  want  one  with  lots 
of  yellow  and  red  and  green  in  it.  I  want  something 
that  you  can  hear  across  the  street.  You  see,  I  have 
a  sister  who  prides  herself  on  her  quiet  taste.  Her 
costumes  are  marked  by  what  you  call  'unobtrusive 
elegance.'  I  think  she'd  rather  die  than  wear  one  of 
those  things,  so  I  want  the  biggest  and  noisiest  one  in 
the  whole  lot." 

The  girl  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  Mr.  Payson's 
strange  remarks,  but  she  was  too  busy  to  be  kept  won 
dering. 

Mr.  Payson's  sister's  husband  is  the  president  of  a 
church  temperance  society,  so  Mr.  Payson  bought  him 
a  buckhorn  corkscrew. 

There  was  one  more  present  to  buy. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Payson.   "What  is  there  that 
could  be  of  no  earthly  use  to  a  girl  six  years  old  ?" 
[219] 


MR.    PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

Even  as  he  spoke  his  eye  fell  on  a  sign :  "Bargain 
sale  of  neckwear." 

"I  don't  believe  she  would  care  for  cravats,"  he  said. 
"I  think  I'll  buy  some  for  her." 

He  saw  a  box  of  large  cravats  marked  "25  cents 
each." 

"Why  are  those  so  cheap?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  they're  out  of  style." 

"That's  good.  I  want  eight  of  them — oh,  any  eight 
will  do.  I  want  them  for  a  small  niece  of  mine — a 
little  girl  about  six  years  old." 

Without  indicating  the  least  surprise,  the  salesman 
wrapped  up  the  cravats. 


Letters  received  by  Mr.  Sidney  Payson  in  acknowl 
edgment  of  his  Christmas-presents : 

1. 

"Dear  Brother:  Pardon  me  for  not  having 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  your  Christmas-present. 
The  fact  is  that  since  the  skates  came  I  have  been  de 
voting  so  much  of  my  time  to  the  re-acquiring  of  one 
of  my  early  accomplishments  that  I  have  not  had 
much  time  for  writing.  I  wish  I  could  express  to  you 
the  delight  I  felt  when  I  opened  the  box  and  saw  that 


MR.     PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

you  had  sent  me  a  pair  of  skates.  It  was  just  as  if 
you  had  said  to  me :  'Will,  my  boy,  some  people  may 
think  that  you  are  getting  on  in  years,  but  I  know 
that  you're  not.'  I  suddenly  remembered  that  the 
presents  which  I  have  been  receiving  for  several 
Christmases  wrere  intended  for  an  old  man.  I  have 
received  easy-chairs,  slippers,  mufflers,  smoking- 
jackets,  and  the  like.  When  I  received  the  pair  of 
skates  from  you  I  felt  that  twenty  years  had  been 
lifted  off  my  shoulders.  How  in  the  world  did  you 
ever  happen  to  think  of  them?  Did  you  really  be 
lieve  that  my  skating-days  were  not  over?  Well, 
they're  not .  I  went  to  the  pond  in  the  park  on  Christ 
mas-day  and  worked  at  it  for  two  hours  and  I  had  a 
lot  of  fun.  My  ankles  were  rather  weak  and  I  fell 
down  twice,  fortunately  without  any  serious  damage 
to  myself  or  the  ice,  but  I  managed  to  go  through  the 
motions,  and  before  I  left  I  skated  with  a  smashing 
pretty  girl.  Well.  Sid,  I  have  you  to  thank.  I  never 
would  have  ventured  on  skates  again  if  it  had  not  been 
for  you.  I  was  a  little  stiff  yesterday,  but  this  morn 
ing  I  went  out  again  and  had  a  dandy  time.  I  owe 
the  renewal  of  my  youth  to  you.  Thank  you  many 
times,  and  believe  me  to  be,  as  ever,  your  affectionate 
brother, 

"WILLIAM." 
[221  ] 


MR.    PAYSON'S    CHRISTMAS 


"Dear  Brother :  The  secret  is  out !  I  suspected  it 
all  the  time.  It  is  needless  for  you  to  offer  denial. 
Sometimes  when  you  have  acted  the  cynic  I  have  al 
most  believed  that  you  were  sincere,  but  each  time  I 
have  been  relieved  to  observe  in  you  something  which 
told  me  that  underneath  your  assumed  indifference 
there  was  a  genial  current  of  the  romantic  sentiment  of 
the  youth  and  the  lover.  How  can  I  be  in  doubt  after 
receiving  a  little  book — a  love-story  ? 

"I  knew,  Sidney  dear,  that  you  would  remember  me 
at  Christmas.  You  have  always  been  the  soul  of 
thoughtfulness,  especially  to  those  of  us  who  under 
stood  you.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  expected 
you  to  do  the  deadly  conventional  thing  and  send  me 
something  heavy  and  serious.  I  knew  it  would  be  a 
book.  All  of  my  friends  send  me  books.  That  comes 
of  being  president  of  a  literary  club.  But  you  are 
the  only  one,  Sidney,  who  had  the  rare  and  kindly 
judgment  to  appeal  to  the  woman  and  not  to  the  club 
president.  Because  I  am  interested  in  a  serious  literary 
movement  it  need  not  follow  that  I  want  my  whole  life 
to  be  overshadowed  by  the  giants  of  the  kingdom  of 
letters.  Although  I  would  not  dare  confess  it  to  Mrs. 
Peabody  or  Mrs.  Hutchens,  there  are  times  when  I  like 


MR.     PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

to  spend   an  afternoon  with  an  old-fashioned  love- 
story. 

"You  are  a  bachelor,  Sidney,  and  as  for  me,  I  have 
long  since  ceased  to  blush  at  the  casual  mention  of  'old 
maid.'  It  was  not  for  us  to  know  the  bitter-sweet 
experiences  of  courtship  and  marriage,  and  you  will 
remember  that  we  have  sometimes  pitied  the  headlong 
infatuation  of  sweethearts  and  have  felt  rather  su 
perior  in  our  freedom.  And  yet,  Sidney,  if  we  chose 
to  be  perfectly  candid  with  each  other,  I  dare  say 
that  both  of  us  would  confess  to  having  known  some 
thing  about  that  which  men  call  love.  We  might  con 
fess  that  we  had  felt  its  subtle  influence,  at  times  and 
places,  and  with  a  stirring  uneasiness,  as.one  detects  a 
draught.  We  might  go  so  far  as  to  admit  that  some 
times  we  pause  in  our  lonely  lives  and  wonder  what 
might  have  been  and  whether  it  would  not  have  been 
better,  after  all.  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  writing  like 
a  sentimental  school-girl,  but  you  must  know  that  I 
have  been  reading  your  charming  little  book,  and  it 
has  come  to  me  as  a  message  from  you.  Is  it  not  really 
a  confession,  Sidney? 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy,  dear  brother.  I 
feel  more  closely  drawn  to  you  than  at  any  time  since 
we  were  all  together  at  Christmas,  at  the  old  home. 
Come  and  see  me.  Your  loving  sister, 

"GERTRUDE." 


MR.    PAYSON'S    CHRISTMAS 


"Dear  Brother :  Greetings  to  you  from  the  happi 
est  household  in  town,  thanks  to  a  generous  Santa 
Claus  in  the  guise  of  Uncle  Sidney.  I  must  begin  by 
thanking  you  on  my  own  account.  How  in  the  world 
did  you  ever  learn  that  Roman  colours  had  come  in 
again?  I  have  always  heard  that  men  did  not  follow 
the  styles  and  could  not  be  trusted  to  select  anything 
for  a  woman,  but  it  is  a  libel,  a  base  libel,  for  the  scarf 
which  you  sent  is  quite  the  most  beautiful  thing  I 
have  received  this  Christmas.  I  have  it  draped  over 
the  large  picture  in  the  parlour,  and  it  is  the  envy  of 
every  one  who  has  been  in  to-day.  A  thousand,  thou 
sand  thanks,  dear  Sidney.  It  was  perfectly  sweet  of 
you  to  remember  me,  and  I  call  it  nothing  less  than  a 
stroke  of  genius  to  think  of  anything  so  appropriate 
and  yet  so  much  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"John  asks  me  to  thank  you— but  I  must  tell  you 
the  story.  One  evening  last  week  we  had  a  little 
chafing-dish  party  after  prayer-meeting,  and  I  asked 
John  to  open  a  bottle  of  olives  for  me.  Well,  he  broke 
the  small  blade  of  his  knife  trying  to  get  the  cork  out. 
He  said :  'If  I  live  to  get  downtown  again,  I'm  going 


MR.    PAYSON'S    CHRISTMAS 

to  buy  a  corkscrew.'  Fortunately  he  had  neglected 
to  buy  one,  and  so  your  gift  seemed  to  come  straight 
from  Providence.  John  is  very  much  pleased.  Al 
ready  he  has  found  use  for  it,  as  it  happened  that  he 
wanted  to  open  a  bottle  of  household  ammonia  the  very 
first  thing  this  morning. 

"As  for  Fred's  lovely  books,  thank  goodness  you 
didn't  send  him  any  more  story-books.  John  and  I 
have  been  trying  to  induce  him  to  take  up  a  more  seri 
ous  line  of  reading.  The  Josephus  ought  to  help  him 
in  the  study  of  his  Sunday-school  lessons.  We  were 
pleased  to  observe  that  he  read  it  for  about  an  hour 
this  morning. 

"When  you  were  out  here  last  fall  did  Genevieve 
tell  you  that  she  was  collecting  silk  for  a  doll  quilt? 
She  insists  that  she  did  not,  but  she  must  have  done 
so,  for  how  could  you  have  guessed  that  she  wants 
pieces  of  silk  above  anything  else  in  the  world?  The 
perfectly  lovely  cravats  which  you  sent  will  more  than 
complete  the  quilt,  and  I  think  that  mamma  will  get 
some  of  the  extra  pieces  for  herself.  Fred  and  Gene 
vieve  send  love  and  kisses.  John  insists  that  you  come 
out  to  dinner  some  Sunday  very  soon — next  Sunday 
if  you  can.  After  we  received  your  presents  we  were 
quite  ashamed  of  the  box  we  had  sent  over  to  your 
hotel,  but  we  will  try  to  make  up  the  difference  in 


MR.     PAYSON'S     CHRISTMAS 

heart- felt    gratitude.      Don't    forget — any    Sunday. 
Your  loving  sister, 

"KATHERINE." 

It  would  be  useless  to  tell  what  Mr.  Sidney  Payson 
thought  of  himself  after  he  received  these  letters. 


LIFE    INSURANCE 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

The  moment  you  see  him  coming  toward  you,  you 
are  sensible  of  the  fact  that  his  personality  towers 
above  your  own.  He  stoops  a  little,  figuratively  and 
literally,  when  he  comes  to  address  you. 

"Mr.  Mark,  I  wrote  to  you  some  time  ago  in  regard 
to  a  business  matter  in  which  I  supposed  you  might 
be  interested,"  he  says. 

You  do  not  remember  having  received  any  com 
munication  from  him  and  you  are  moderately  certain 
that  you  never  saw  the  man  before,  but  memory  is 
fickle  and  you  tactfully  say  "Yes,"  nodding  your 
head. 

"I  had  intended  to  come  around  and  see  you  before 
this,"  he  says.  "A  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  A.  J.  Booster, 
in  the  Behemoth  building,  was  very  anxious  that  I 
should  call  in  to  see  you,  and  I  promised  him  that  I 
would." 

You  remember  Mr.  Booster,  dimly,  as  a  restaurant 
acquaintance,  who  makes  puns.  You  wonder  why  he 
has  put  on  such  a  solicitude. 

You  look  at  the  plain  card  in  front  of  you,  "Mr. 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

Percival  Conway,"  and  wonder  if  he  has  come  to  buy 
those  lots  in  Prairie  Glen,  which  you  have  been  holding 
at  $800,  without  an  offer  in  four  years. 

"Now,  I  don't  want  to  interrupt  you  if  you  are  busy 
or  take  up  any  of  your  time  needlessly,"  says  Mr. 
Conway,  as  he  glances  at  a  heavily  engraved  gold 
watch.  "It  is  now  10.30.  If  you  will  have  more  time 
at  11.30  or  at  2  this  afternoon,  or  at  any  other 
hour,  I  can  break  my  engagements  and  come  here  to 
see  you.  What  I  have  to  say  will  probably  take  ten 
minutes.  It's  a  simple  and  straightforward  business 
proposition,  and  I  think  it  will  appeal  to  you  as  a 
business  man.  (This  flatters  you,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  you  haven't  an  ounce  of  business  sense  and  never 
made  a  success  of  a  trade.)  As  I  said  before,  I  won't 
take  up  more  than  ten  minutes,  but  I  don't  care  to 
bring  the  matter  to  your  attention  until  you  feel  that 
you  have  the  time  at  your  disposal." 

To  tell  the  truth,  you  are  very  busy.  Your  day's 
work  lies  before  you  on  the  desk  and  beckons  you  to 
activity.  But  who  can  resist  a  man  who  is  so  consid 
erate?  Besides,  it  will  be  over  in  ten  minutes,  so  why 
not  have  it  out  of  the  way  ?  You  ask  him  to  be  seated 
and  put  yourself  into  a  serious  attitude  for  listen 
ing. 

"Mr.  Mark,  I  believe  that  I  can  put  you  in  the  way 
[230] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

of  making  a -little  money  for  yourself,  or  at  least  of 
saving  some  money  year  after  year,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  protecting  your  family  or  relations,"  he  begins. 

This  has  a  suspicious  phrasing. 

"Let's  see,  you're  about  twenty-nine  years  old, 
aren't  you?"  he  asks. 

"More  than  that— thirty-four." 

"Indeed !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it.  Now  let  me 
see  (taking  a  small  book  from  his  inside  coat -pocket), 
you  say  thirty-four—thirty-four — well,  that  isn't  so 
much  more.  There  isn't  so  much  difference  in  the 
expectation.  Now,  Mr.  Mark,  how  much  money  could 
you  spare  every  year — money  to  be  put  aside  simply 
as  a  sure  investment,  with  the  privilege  of  drawing  it 
out  at  any  time  if  you  saw  fit  to  do  so?" 

You  begin  to  catch  the  trend  of  his  remarks. 

"Is  this  another  life-insurance  scheme?"  you  ask  as 
you  feel  the  wrath  slowly  spreading  toward  your  ex 
tremities. 

"Not  exactly,  although  we  guarantee  you  the  in 
cidental  insurance  the  same  as  the  old-line  companies. 
Our  proposition,  however,  differs  from  all  others  in 
this  important  respect:  We  allow  the  interest  accu 
mulating  on  the  tontine  policy  to  become  a  reserve 
fund,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty  years  you  can  either 
draw  this  principal  or  you  can  apply  it  on  a  paid-up 
[231] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

policy  at  four  per  cent,  interest.  Now,  for  instance, 
you  are  thirty-four  years  old  and  you  take  out  one  of 
our  non-reversible  twenty-year  policies  with  the  re 
serve-fund  clause.  You  would  pay  the  first  year 
$186.13,  and  of  that  sum  $22.49  would  go  into  the 
contingent  department  and  be  applied  on  the  policy 
direct,  while  $76.87,  as  you  can  see  by  a  glance  at  this 
chart,  will  be  put  aside,  and  out  of  that  we  allow  you 
the  discount,  so  that  the  second  year  you  can  either 
pay  the  $186.13  or  you  can  allow  the  $14.92  set  down 
here  as  premium,  to  apply  on  the  payment,  or  you  can 
withdraw  and  take  a  nine-months'  paid-up  policy  for 
$1,800,  but  if  you  do  this  you  lose  the  four  per  cent, 
interest  which  I  mentioned  a  few  minutes  ago,  so  that, 
if  you  care  to  accept  my  advice  in  the  matter  you  will 
take  the  same  kind  of  a  policy  that  I  wrote  for  your 
friend,  Mr.  Booster- — that  is,  the  reactionable  endow 
ment  policy,  with  the  clause  permitting  the  accumula 
tion  of  both  premium  and  interest,  so  that,  after  the 
termination  of  eleven  years,  you  being  only  forty-five 
years  old  at  that  time,  you  can  withdraw  all  that  you 
have  paid  in  up  to  that  time,  less  the  $22.49  indicated 
in  the  left-hand  column,  or,  as  I  said  a  while  ago,  you 
can  accept  a  paid-up  policy  at  the  uniform  rate,  which 
in  your  case  would  be  equivalent  to  $3,400.  Now,  I 
suppose  the  question  presents  itself  to  your  mind :  'In 
[  232  ] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

what  respect  does  this  proposition  vary  from  one  that 
might  be  offered  by  an  old-line  insurance  com 
pany'?" 

It  is  possible  that  such  a  question  has  presented 
itself,  but  the  probability  is  that  you  are  wondering 
what  it  is  all  about. 

Your  mind  gropes  through  the  murk  of  technical 
verbiage  as  Mr.  Con  way  proceeds  to  elucidate  the  dif 
ference  between  his  proposition  and  one  that  might 
be  made  by  an  old-line  company. 

"In  the  first  place,  we  apply  the  premium  direct 
and  compute  the  insurance  at  the  rate  of  $2.06  a  year 
per  $1,000,  so  that  the  entire  residue  goes  into  the 
sinking  fund  and  there  it  draws  compound  interest  for 
you  at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent,  per  annum.  This  is 
made  possible  under  our  new  system  of  reducing  oper 
ating  expenses  to  a  minimum  and  putting  the  execu 
tive  department  into  the  hands  of  men  who  do  not  seek 
pecuniary  reward,  but  are  actuated  by  unselfish  and 
philanthropic  motives.  Now  in  this  twenty-year  au 
tomatic  policy,  which  you  will  probably  prefer  to  any 
of  the  others  when  you  have  given  the  matter  thor 
ough  study,  you  pay  in  $2,247.67  and  you  get  at  the 
end  of  twenty  years  your  $5,000,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  incidental  protection  during  that  period.  Now, 
in  one  of  the  old-line  companies  you  would  pay  in 
[233] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

$4,862.54,  so  that  we  save  you  $2,600  right  there,  as 
well  as  guaranteeing  to  you  the  privilege  of  with 
drawal  and  the  computation  of  interest,  or  the  ac 
ceptance  of  a  paid-up  policy.  Doesn't  that  strike  you 
as  a  generous  proposition?" 

There  can  be  but  one  answer  to  this  question.  You 
must  say  "Yes." 

Suppose  you  say  "No."  He  will  ask  you,  "Well, 
to  what  particular  feature  of  the  policy  would  you 
object?" 

Then  you  would  be  helpless. 

If  you  were  to  say  that  you  didn't  know  what  he 
was  talking  about  and  that  all  his  arguments  were  as 
Greek  or  Sanscrit,  that  would  be  evidence  of  a  feeble 
understanding,  because  he  gave  you  to  understand 
at  the  beginning  that  he  was  going  to  be  simple  and 
direct. 

There  is  but  one  way  in  which  to  cover  your  con 
fusion  of  mind,  and  that  is  to  nod  gravely  and  say 
"Yes." 

However,  this  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  do.  The  mo 
ment  that  you  say  "Yes,"  that  becomes  a  practical 
admission  on  your  part  that  you  are  partly  under 
conviction. 

Immediately  he  does  the  magician's  trick.  He  pulls 
a  huge  book  from  under  his  coat  (you  wonder  how  he 
[234] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

managed  to  conceal  it)  and  begins  to  fill  out  an  appli 
cation  for  a  policy. 

Here  you  must  enter  a  protest  or  you  are  lost.  It 
must  be  an  emphatic  protest.  You  must  give  some 
specific  reason  for  not  desiring  a  policy.  Whatever 
that  reason  may  be,  he  is  ready  to  bombard  and  demol 
ish  it  with  unanswerable  arguments,  business  proverbs, 
and  figures  of  speech.  Hundreds  of  men  have  given 
him  that  same  reason  at  various  times,  and  he  has 
studied  out  his  reply,  rehearsed  it  carefully,  and  for 
tified  himself  at  every  point. 

So  when  you  start  in  to  dispute  ground  with  Mr. 
Conway  you  are  in  the  position  of  a  bewildered  novice 
who  is  going  against  the  champion  of  the  world. 

If  you  say  that  you  have  all  the  insurance  you  can 
carry,  he  will  demonstrate  to  you  that  you  have  not. 
If  you  mention  that  you  are  investing  all  of  your 
money,  he  will  prove  to  you  that  his  company  offers 
the  only  safe  and  profitable  field  for  investment.  If 
you  raise  the  point  that  you  are  unmarried  and  have 
no  one  dependent  upon  you  and  therefore  feel  no  dis 
position  to  carry  insurance,  he  will  produce  a  green 
book  and  read  the  figures  to  prove  that  of  every  1,000 
men  who,  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  announce  that 
they  never  will  marry,  no  less  than  860  afterward 
weaken  and  go  to  the  altar,  and  this,  too,  at  a  time  of 
[235] 


LIFE    INSURANCE 

life    when    the   insurance    rates   are   becoming    very 
high. 

So  you  see,  there  is  no  chance  for  you.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  take  out  a  policy  for  any  amount 
that  he  may  suggest. 


[236] 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 

It  is  a  boarding-house  privilege  to  sit  on  the  front 
stoop  at  dusk.  The  rooms  are  small  and  stuffy.  Our 
landlady  cannot  afford  to  provide  a  roof-garden  when 
rates  are  $5  per  week  per  person,  or  $9  a  week  for  a 
married  couple,  provided  the  husband  will  agree  not 
to  come  home  to  luncheon. 

On  this  evening  in  June  we  noticed  the  two  across 
the  way.  These  two  sat  on  the  stone  steps  in  front  of 
what  had  been  an  aristocratic  residence  five  years  after 
the  fire.  Lest  it  should  degenerate  into  a  ruin,  it  had 
become  a  boarding-house.  We  lived  in  a  street  of 
boarding-houses. 

The  house  was  of  three  stories  and  the  architecture 
was  gloomy  and  most  respectable.  The  basement, 
which  was  really  the  ground  floor,  had  been  thrown 
into  one  long  dining-room,  and  here,  when  the  lights 
were  on,  we  could  see  the  boarders  flocked  at  a  series 
of  rectangular  tables  sparsely  set  with  glass  and  white 
ware.  It  was  much  like  our  own  ground  floor. 

The  three  floors  above  this  tunnel-like  dining-room 
were  filled  with  families  and  roomers.  We  had  come 
[239] 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 

to  know  two  old  men  who  went  in  and  out  at  irregular 
intervals.  Then  there  were  at  least  three  elderly 
women,  and  the  tall  one  with  the  military  bearing  was 
generally  supposed  to  be  the  mistress  of  the  boarding 
department.  In  addition  to  these  there  was  the  usual 
straggle  of  men.  The  time  to  see  them  was  near  7.45 
each  morning  as  they  came  slamming  out  of  the  house, 
one  after  another,  and  raced  away  to  their  eight- 
o'clock  jobs.  Three  children  played  in  front  of  the 
house  occasionally,  or  else  looked  out  from  the  second- 
story  window. 

Then  there  was  the  girl.  She  was  with  a  young 
man  who  did  not  belong  to  the  establishment,  as  we 
suspected  at  the  time  and  came  to  know  later  on.  His 
summer  suit  was  a  real  triumph  in  soft  grey,  and  the 
straw  hat  was  in  the  very  moment  of  fashion,  being 
woven  of  rough  straw,  the  rim  very  narrow  and  the 
ribbon  a  dazzling  tricolour.  We  could  see  that  he 
was  young  and  self-satisfied.  We  felt  that  perhaps 
he  boarded  at  an  $8  house. 

The  men  on  our  stoop  preferred  to  look  at  the 
young  woman.  She  had  spread  a  rug  on  the  landing 
above  the  top  step  and  sat  in  a  kind  of  oriental  sprawl, 
looking  down  at  the  young  nran,  who  was  two  steps 
below.  Her  shirt-waist  was  of  some  light  material, 
and  the  skirt  was  of  a  darker  stuff,  and  her  brown  hair 
[240  ] 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 

was  wavy  and  rebellious.  Also,  she  was  very  pretty, 
with  eyes  and  lips,  etc.  This  is  a  man's  description, 
of  course.  Our  two  young  women  criticised  her  ap 
parel,  but  the  men  silently  agreed  with  the  law-student 
when  he  said,  "She  suits  me." 

The  majority  of  us  were  country -born  and  we  had 
not  overcome  that  early  habit,  honestly  inherited,  of 
taking  a  lively  interest  in  the  affairs  of  other  people. 
So  we  watched  the  two  across  the  way  and  talked  about 
them.  The  men  were  inwardly  jealous  of  the  attrac 
tive  youth  in  the  grey  suit,  and  the  young  women  were 
outwardly  displeased  at  his  lack  of  taste. 

The  two  sat  on  the  front  steps  and  looked  at  each 
other  steadily,  talking  but  little.  After  a  little  while 
one  of  the  roomers  came  out  and  joined  the  two  on  the 
steps.  He  was  a  confident  young  man  with  a  toss  of 
hair  on  his  forehead  and  a  grating  haw-haw  laugh, 
intended  to  be  a  token  of  sociability. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  had  the  conversation  all  to 
himself.  Then  the  two  came  to  an  agreement,  evi 
dently  through  some  code  known  only  to  themselves, 
for  they  came  down  the  steps  and  sauntered  away  to 
gether,  leaving  the  hairy  young  man  to  trim  his  nails 
and  smoke  his  cigar  in  solitary  self-satisfaction. 

We  saw  them  again,  a  night  or  two  after  that. 

They  sat  together  on  the  steps  until  one  of  the 
[241] 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 

women  came  out  to  join  them,  and  they  wandered 
away  into  the  twilight,  their  arms  touching. 

In  a  little  while  we  had  learned  his  average.  It  was 
three  times  a  week.  They  seemed  most  happy  when 
there  was  no  third  person  near.  A  happy  sign. 

It  is  tantalising  to  assist  in  a  love-affair  and  not 
know  the  names. 

She  did  not  hurry  away  in  the  morning  with  the 
other  eight-o'clock  sleepy-heads,  but  our  landlady 
said  that  usually  she  went  out  at  ten,  returning  not 
later  than  four.  If  she  was  not  regularly  employed, 
perhaps  she  was  merely  visiting  the  woman  who  took 
boarders.  Probably  this  woman  was  her  aunt.  Mere 
speculation,  all  of  it. 

The  young  man  usually  approached  from  the  south. 
Presumably  he  lived  on  the  south  side.  A  poor  frag 
ment  of  unsatisfactory  evidence. 

After  two  or  three  weeks,  when  any  one  of  the 
boarders  spoke  of  "he"  it  was  known  that  he  referred 
to  the  young  man  across  the  way.  The  girl  was  "she" 
— the  couple  "they." 

The  new  bulletins  came  at  breakfast  and  dinner. 
They  were  somewhat  after  the  style  of  the  following: 

"They  went  again  last  night." 

"A  messenger  boy  brought  a  note  to-day.  I  sup 
pose  it  was  from  him." 


OUR     PRIVATE     ROMANCE 

"She  sat  at  the  window  for  nearly  an  hour  to-day 
and  seemed,  oh,  so  lonesome!" 

"They  were  out  walking  all  afternoon." 

"A  boy  brought  a  box  this  afternoon.  It  looked 
like  a  box  of  flowers.  I  suppose  they  were  for  her." 

As  the  colder  weather  came  on  and  the  days  were 
shorter,  the  men  had  little  opportunity  to  learn  for 
themselves  what  was  happening.  The  women  made 
two  important  discoveries : 

1.  She  was  doing  a  great  deal  of  department-store 
shopping,  for  the  shiny  waggons  from  State  Street 
stopped  in  front  of  the  place  nearly  every  day. 

2.  She  now  had  as  a  companion  an  older  woman, 
who  accompanied  her  as  she  went  out  each  day. 

Was  this  woman  her  mother  ?  How  could  she  afford 
to  buy  so  many  clothes?  Was  it  possible  that  the 
young  man  was  paying  for  her  trousseau?  What 
were  in  the  boxes? 

No  one  at  our  boarding-house  could  answer  these 
questions,  but  the  young  women  built  a  romance 
around  the  slender  framework  of  circumstantial  evi 
dence.  The  young  man  was  rich  and  the  girl  the 
daughter  of  an  aristocratic  widow  who  had  lost  her 
property,  and  the  young  man's  parents  opposed  the 
match  because  the  girl  was  poor  and  had  to  live  in  a 
boarding-house,  but  the  young  man,  thank  heaven, 


O  II  II       I'  l(  I  V  A  T  I,      K  O  M  A  N  (    I, 

VUi  .    li.i«      In    |||i-    jynl     |M-    Inv'id,    /Mill    HO    flu      niolhif     li.»| 

roiiM  1 1  '.MI  I  In  «-l. I  I M.n ii  /Mid  I ,,i 1 1  1 1 1. !«!•  «  \  <  i  -,  •  jirnfiee 
in  •.!<!•  i  Unit  her  dnii^hler  ini^hl  hi'  married  in  proper 
Hl.yle,  (mil  «.  I  hey  were  lo  he  united  /md  fly  uwny  lo 
n  IIOIH -yiiMMui  in  |'|MM«|M,  ..n.l  Hn-n  ..,,,,-  h/irk  lo  live 
forever  MI  •  iii/i^iiifirenl  ll/il  willi  rn^/H  HIM!  lliin^H  mid 

I  In  II    nvvn    ;n-|  vniilH. 

We  hoped  Ili/il    H    ini^lil    he   Inie,  ..t,.l   il   riiini'  nhoul 
<.«.ii.  i    IL. in    \v<-   h/td   expeeled. 

When    we    trooped    home   Hie  oilier  evening    lh«     I  .ml 

hidy  /mil  her  daughter  •••!•    Ihrohhifiu  vvilh   m 
I  ion.      II.  hdd  happened  i 

The  nrrivid   ol    IUM  f/iiiiir^rN  flix!    niiiNi'd   « '•nun.  nl 
The    l/indhidy     Imd    n/nd     lo    her    d/lll^lller,    **  I     \vond«-r 
who"      hul   there  in  no  need  of  recounting  /ill  Ih/il. 

Slr/in/^e  people  mine  hlr/in^e  people  in  their  henl. 
•  lolliri  Thih  W/IM  nenr  twelve  o\'loek.  Then  n 
preueher  widl.inj'  Any  one  eoiild  h/ive  told  he  w/iH 
a  pre/iclier  hieUy  looking  IIUMI  in  1,1  ..I  Then  //, 
r/Miie.  Lovely!  IJI/iek  elol  hen  hilk  (nil.  Then  other 
people  on  Tool.  The  hindl/idy  .n.l  IK  i  d.m;'lil«i 
hlruiiiinp;  their  eyen  to  HIT  wluil,  WIIM  h/ippeninp(  innide 
Hie  lioiine. 

.Mi-. ul     !:',()    (In     fii.nl    door   opened.       C/irri/i^;e    in 
llride   looked   MWeel    /mil    wore  n    j^oin^  /i  \va  y 
of"      hul    no1   «i.in  MM.     r/tilfi.       Mvi-ry    «»ne    \vn\«.l 

[1*4  I 


()  I!  l(      I1  It  I  V  A  T  i:      K  0  M  A  N  <    I. 

/mil  Maid  jjfood  liyr.  Tin  l/uull/nl  y  (  iml  <>ui  )  /mil  DM 
oilier  wniiKin  ( MiihjM  j'Icd  lo  1 1.  (In  inollii'l')  hlnod  on 
I  In  l«  |.  .  in  id  u  jil*  IK  <  I  llu-  <  iirrin^r  ii  nl  1 1  il  WMM  ni  1 1  of 
HJ^Iil.  Tin-  ollirr  wotnnii  <  rird  n  lillli  Six  iiiilh!  luivr 

been  tin-  i.i«. ill.  i 

A  l;n  K/ul/i  y  '       |l    in  nil  over.      Tlir   Illi^lr   ol    MMH/IIIII 
li/>  .   ^Miiir  onl   of  our  nlrrrl.. 


I  '>-  tt  I 


MR.     LINDSAY     ON 
JEWAN" 


SAN 


ME.     LINDSAY     ON     "SAN 
JEWAN" 

It  was  at  the  breakfast-table  that  Mr.  Scott  Lindsay, 
a  veteran  of  the  real  war,  read  something  about  the 
anniversary  of  the  battle  of  San  Juan  and  began  to 
rattle  the  paper. 

"Now,  now!"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay,  calmly,  for  she 
knew  his  tantrums. 

"Great  grief,  mother !"  he  exclaimed,  looking  across 
the  table  at  his  wife.  "Here's  somethin'  that'd  make 
old  Sherman  turn  over  in  his  grave.  They're  goin'  to 
celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  of  San  Jewan. 
Thunder ation!  The  battle  of  San  Jewan !  BATTLE  ! 
Gosh,  all  fish-hooks !  BATTLE!  Say,  if  the  old  boys 
that  'uz  with  the  Army  o'  the  Tennessee  ever  started 
in  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  every  durned  little 
popgun  skirmish  like  that  battle  o'  San  Jewan,  we 
wouldn't  do  nothin'  but  celebrate,  day  in  and  day  out, 
from  one  year's  end  to  another.  We'd  have  to  git  up 
in  the  night  and  annyverserate.  Battle!  Battle 
nothin' !  W'y,  around  Vicksburg  there  we  used  to  roll 
out  in  the  mornin'  an'  fight  three  or  four  o'  them  bat- 


MR.     LINDSAY 

ties  just  to  whet  our  appetites.  We  didn't  call  'em 
battles,  though.  We  knew  the  difference  between  a 
battle  and  a  ras'berry  festival." 

"Oh,  well,  father,  you  must  make  some  allowances," 
said  Mrs.  Lindsay.  "These  boys  don't  remember  the 
other  war." 

"I  guess  they  don't — I  just  good  an'  guess  they 
don't.  If  they  did,  they  wouldn't  be  steppin'  so  high. 
There's  a  blamed  sight  o'  difference  between  chasin' 
some  runt  of  a  dago  with  a  white  feather  in  each  hand 
an'  chasin'  a  six-foot  Johnny  Reb  that  jus'  raises  up 
on  his  everlastin'  hind  legs  an'  comes  at  you  like  a 
runaway  horse,  breathin'  smoke  out  of  his  nose  an' 
ears,  by  gory,  an'  yellin'  like  an  Injun.  It's  easy 
enough  to  chase  anything  that  runs  the  other  way,  but 
this  hero  job's  got  its  drawbacks  when  the  other  feller 
gits  it  into  his  head  that  lie  wants  to  do  the  chasin'  an' 
swoops  out  o'  the  woods  like  an  loway  cyclone,  by 
gosh,  pumpin'  lead  into  you  till  you  git  too  heavy  to 
run.  Battle!  When  we  had  'em  stacked  up  till  we 
couldn't  see  over  'em,  an'  every  rigiment  'uz  whittled 
down  to  a  company  an'  our  flags  'uz  blown  into  carpet 
rags  an'  the  blood  got  so  deep  it  wet  the  ammanition  in 
the  waggons,  we  used  to  begin  to  suspect  that  we'd 
had  a  battle.  Somethin'  a  little  less  argymentative 
than  that  we  called  a  skirmish.  Anything  the  size  o' 
[250] 


MR.     LINDSAY 

this  San  Jewan  basket-meetin'  we  didn't  keep  no  tally 
of  at  all.  That  kind  o'  come  under  the  head  o'  target- 
practice." 

"I  wouldn't  be  too  hard  on  'em,  father.  They  say 
these  boys  fought  real  well  down  there  in  Cuby." 

"Well,  to  see  'em  cavortin'  around  town  here  in  their 
cowboy  hats  and  gassin'  in  front  of  every  store,  you'd 
think,  by  cracky,  that  every  one  of  'em  had  chawed 
up  a  thousand  o'  them  Spanish  generals,  whiskers  an' 
all.  You  take  some  old  codger  that  crawled  through 
them  swamps  for  four  years,  dodgin'  minie-balls  and 
nothin'  to  keep  him  alive  but  hardtack  an'  hot  slough- 
water,  an'  he  ain't  in  it  no  more  with  one  o'  these  cussed 
little  whipper-snappers,  by  ginger,  that — well,  you 
ought  to  heard  old  Cap  Nesbit  the  other  night  after 
post-meetin'.  He  made  a  few  remarks  about  these  kid 
soldiers  that  wouldn't  pass  muster  in  a  crowd  o'  women, 
but  they  was  satisfyin'  to  me." 

"I  don't  see  why  Cap  Nesbit  wants  to  pick  onto 
these  boys,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay.  "I  think  they  de 
serve  a  lot  o'  credit  for  enlistin'  an'  goin'  down  there 
in  that  hot  country  to  fight." 

"Enlistin's  all  right  an'  fightin's  all  right,  if  you  do 

it.     I  don't  begrudge  no  man  the  credit  of  goin'  out 

an9  fightin'  for  his  country.     These  boys  done  well  as 

far  as  they  went,  but  I  don't  want  no  kid  to  tell  me 

[251] 


MR.     L  I  X  D  S  A  Y 

what  war  is  till  he's  been  through  one.  These  young 
fellers  got  a  sniff  o*  blood,  and  now  they  think  they've 
been  through  the  slaughter-house.  There's  old  Dan 
Bailey  that  got  shot  so  often  he  didn't  mind  it  at  all 
toward  the  last,  laid  in  Anderson ville  till  he  was  a 
rack  of  bones,  come  home  here  lookin'  like  a  corpse  and 
ain't  seen  a  well  day  since,  and  he  ain't  as  big  a  man  in 
this  town  to-day  as  that  grandson  o'  his  that  went  down 
there  to  Forty  Rico  an'  laid  in  a  hammock  for  six 
months,  smokin'  cigarettes.  He's  what  they  call  a  hero 
now — had  an  ice-cream  reception  for  him  when  he 
come  home,  didn't  they?  I  don't  rickollect  that  any 
body  had  an  ice-cream  reception  for  old  Dan  when  }\e 
come  home.  Heroes  wuzn't  quite  so  gosh  blamed 
scarce  about  that  time.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to 
'em.  They  used  to  ship  'em  in  here  by  the  carload, 
and  most  of  'em  went  right  on  through  town  an'  out 
to  the  graveyard.  W'y,  these  boys,  they  rode  down 
to  that  dress-parade  in  Cuby  in  sleepin'-cars !  With 
a  nigger  to  brush  'em  off  an'  bring  ice-water !  Great 
Jehoshaphat!  I'd  like  to  seen  somebody  ask  old 
Griggs  for  a  sleepin'-car.  I'd  like  to  heard  what  he'd 
say.  Sleepin'-cars !  We  wuz  tickled  to  death  to  git 
box -cars,  cattle-cars — anything  on  wheels.  We  didn't 
need  no  porter  to  brush  our  cloze,  for  the  darned  good 
reason  that  we  didn't  have  no  cloze  to  brush.  Then 
[252] 


MR.     LINDSAY 

there  wuz  all  that  talk  about  embammed  beef.  We'd 
a  been  mighty  glad  to  git  it — embammed,  petrified, 
mouldy,  or  any  other  way.  We  thought  we  wuz  lucky 
if  we  could  git  a  hunk  o'  salt  pork  to  drop  in  with  the 
beans  now  an?  then.  We  wuzn't  out  on  no  moonlight 
excursion,  playin?  tag  with  a  lot  o'  tambourine-players. 
We  wuz  out  in  the  underbrush,  dad  ding  my  buttons, 
havin'  it  out  with  the  toughest  lot  o'  human  panthers 
that  ever  wore  cloze.  An*  yit.  like  as  not,  if  we  go 
to  breakin'  in  on  this  San  Jewan  celebration,  we'll  git 
a  back  seat  in  the  gallery.  We  ain't  heroes.  No! 
W'v,  on  Decoration  Day  these  kids  marched  in  front, 
every  one  of  'em  puffed  up  like  a  toad  in  a  thunder 
storm — bigger  man  than  old  Grant,  as  the  feller  says. 
Now,  they're  goin'  to  celebrate  the  annyversary  of 
San  Jewan.  Sufferin'  Cornelius !  There  wuz  another 
likely  skirmish  about  the  same  time  o'  year.  Gettys 
burg,  I  think  they  called  it.  Wonder  why  somebody 
don't  celebrate  that!" 


[253] 


THE     STENOGRAPHIC 
PROPOSAL 


THE     STENOGRAPHIC 
PROPOSAL 

The  persons  concerned  were  Walter  Humphries,  James 
Iv.  Willington,  and  the  Mrs.  Wellington  who  had  been 
Miss  Laura  Babbitt  before  it  happened. 

Willington  was  "James  K."  Willington — not 
"James"  or  "J.  K."— for  in  this  world  of  shoulder- 
slappcrs  he  never  had  allowed  any  one  to  "Jim"  him. 
Therefore  he  was  a  successful  lawyer  whose  very  dig 
nity  carried  him  a  long  way. 

Miss  Laura  Babbitt  was  in  mourning  when  she  came 
into  the  office.  Her  father,  lately  gone  to  the  reward 
of  all  lawyers,  had  been  a  power  in  the  community. 
He  had  made  speeches  at  mass-meetings  and  more  than 
once  he  had  shaken  the  challenge  of  private  debate 
at  all  who  doubted  the  efficacy  of  infant  baptism  or 
believed  there  could  be  any  virtue  in  a  protective  tariff. 

He  was  beloved  by  a  large  household,  to  which  he 
bequeathed  a  library  and  a  tin  box  containing  the 
proofs  that  he  had  given  several  mortgages.  A  few 
weeks  after  his  death,  Laura  Babbitt,  turned  twenty- 
three,  gave  up  her  water-colours  and  her  painting  on 
[257] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

china  and  came  to  the  office  of  James  K.  Wellington 
to  do  type-writing. 

James  K.  Willington  and  Laura  Babbitt's  father 
had  always  disagreed  as  to  baptism  and  the  tariff,  and 
so  they  had  been  great  friends.  They  would  meet  in 
the  Babbitt  library  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  and  pound 
back  and  forth  with  great  earnestness,  coming  out  at 
tea-time,  both  flushed,  happy,  and  thoroughly  uncon 
vinced. 

Ezra  Babbitt  never  had  taken  to  his  heart  any  man 
who  agreed  with  him  on  all  the  main  propositions.  In 
the  presence  of  any  one  who  assented  willingly,  Ezra 
Babbitt's  arguments  were  like  so  many  blows  that  find 
no  resistance,  and  so  merely  wrench  and  strain  the  one 
who  delivers  them.  His  plea  would  settle  into  a  mere 
vapoury  sermon.  James  K.  Willington  disputed  so 
well  that  Ezra  Babbitt  prized  him  as  an  athlete  prizes 
a  punching-bag  that  pugnaciously  comes  back  when 
struck,  and  cannot  be  hammered  to  a  standstill. 

They  were  staunch   friends. 

Laura  Babbitt  did  her  work  at  James  K.  Willing- 
ton's  law-office  with  cheerfulness  and  resignation,  as  if 
she  were  realising  an  ambition,  but  Walter  Humphries 
knew  that  she  didn't  belong  in  a  law-office.  Hum 
phries  was  the  law-student  of  the  office.  He  read  law 
spasmodically,  and  was  learning  stenography  so  that 
[258] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

he  could  be  a  court  reporter  while  he  was  waiting  for 
practice. 

And  some  day  he  was  going  to  take  Laura  Babbitt 
out  of  an  office  and  establish  her  as  queen  of  a  flat,  or 
possibly  a  house.  He  had  not  apprised  her  of  his 
plans,  but  they  were  large  and  he  regarded  them  as 
unselfish. 

Humphries  never  suspected  James  K.  Willington. 

He  had  observed  that  his  superior  was  considerate 
of  Miss  Babbitt's  wishes  and  made  her  work  light,  but 
he  was  unprepared  for  what  happened.  (It  may  be 
noted  at  this  time  that  Laura  Babbitt  was  and  Mrs. 
James  K.  Willington  is  a  very  good-looking  young 
woman.  However,  that  is  mere  detail.) 

Humphries  sat  at  his  table  just  outside  of  James 
K.  Wellington's  private  office.  Perhaps  Willington 
had  forgotten  that  Humphries  was  there.  That  would 
be  a  reasonable  conclusion  in  the  knowledge  of  what 
happened  later. 

Laura  Babbitt  came  in  from  luncheon,  and  seeing 
James  K.  Willington  in  his  office,  went  in  to  speak  to 
him,  nodding  to  Humphries  as  she  passed. 

The  law  student  was  practising  his  pot-hooks  at  the 
time.  According  to  habit,  he  began  "taking"  the  con 
versation  in  the  room  just  behind  him.  He  didn't 
realise  that  he  was  a  guilty  eavesdropper  until  it  was 
[259] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

too  late,  and  then  he  went  on  taking  notes  because  he 
knew  that  such  a  record  might  prove  interesting. 

This  is  the  conversation.     Mr.  Wellington  began  it : 

"Hello,  there." 

"How  do  you  do?    I  finished  that,  Mr.  Willington." 

"Is  that  so  ?    How  was  the  writing  ?" 

"It  wasn't  so  bad.  One  word  there  bothered  me 
some." 

"I'm  a  very  careless  penman.  I  suppose  most 
lawyers  are  bad  writers.  Your  father  wrote  a  remark 
able  hand." 

"Didn't  he,  though?" 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Babbitt.  I — I  believe  I  told  you  I'd 
been  wanting  to  get  up  and  see  your  mother  some  time 
this  week  about  that  Thomas  matter.  How  is  she  ?" 

"She's  well— that  is,  fairly  well." 

"That's  good.  So  she  doesn't  worry — that's  the 
main  thing.  How  does  she  like  the  notion  of  your 
working  down  here?" 

"Well,  you  know  she  told  me  to  do  what  I  thought 
was  best." 

"Yes?    Well,  how  do  you  like  it  by  this  time?" 

"I  don't  mind  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  How  about  that  new  paper 
I  had  sent  over — any  better?" 

"Yes,  it  writes  first-rate." 
[260] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL      • 

"Does  it  ?  I  didn't  know.  I  told  him  to  send  some 
thing  better  than  that  last.  You've  kept  Grace  at 
school,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes.  I  want  her  to  go  for  quite  a  while 
yet." 

"That's  right.  I'd  keep  her  there  as  long  as  I 
could.  I  know  what  your  father's  wishes  would  have 
been.  She  wants  to  get  out  and  do  something,  too — 
isn't  that  it?" 

"She  thinks  she  might — might  be  able  to  do  some 
thing." 

"Yes.  Let's  see,  I'm  not  keeping  you  from  any 
work,  am  I?" 

"No,  unless  you  can  think  of  something.  I  haven't 
had  much  to  do  lately.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  really 
wasn't  much  help." 

"No,  you  mustn't  feel  that  way." 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  suppose  I  could  have  gone  to 
work  for  any  one  who  would  have  been  more  con 
siderate." 

"It  seems  to  be  a  beautiful  day  outside." 

"Isn't  it  though?     It's  warmer,  too." 

"You'd  better  take  off  your  hat.  Isn't  it  a  bad 
thing  to  wear  a  hat  in  the  house?" 

"That's  a  man  for  you!  This  hat  doesn't  weigh 
anything." 

[261] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

"Doesn't  it?    It  is— what  is  it,  new?" 

"New?    Gracious  me,  I  had  it  all  last  summer." 

"It  looks  new.  There  was  something  I  wanted  to 
discuss  with  you." 

"Yes?" 

"I'm — it  puts  me  in  rather  an  awkward  position.  I 
don't  know  that  I  can  make  myself  clear.  Now — ah — 
when  you  came  to  see  me  about  getting  this  position 
here  in  the  office,  had  you  noticed  an — well,  any  hesi 
tancy  on  my  part?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  did." 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't  like  the  idea 
of  your  coming  here  as  an  employe." 

"Why,  Mr.  Willington!" 

"Understand  me !  I  was  delighted  to  have  you  here 
and  I  knew  that  your  services  would  be  valuable,  but 
I  did  not  like  to  put  you  in  the  position  of,  apparently, 
being  under  obligations  to  me.  I  didn't  want  you  to 
feel  that  way." 

"But  I  couldn't  very  well  help  it.  I  am  under  ob 
ligations  to  you.  All  of  us  are  very  grateful,  I'm 
sure." 

"If  you  are,  I  don't  suppose  I  can  help  it,  but  what 
I  want  you  to  understand  is  that  whatever  I  have  done 
for  you  and  your  mother  has  been  done  because  of 
my  friendship  for  your  father  and  not  for  the  purpose 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

of  exercising  an  undue — ah — influence  on  you  or  to 
prejudice  you  in  favour  of  any  proposition  which  you 
might,  otherwise,  be  inclined  to  reject." 

"I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  you  are  talking 
about." 

"Let  us  take  a  hypothetical  case.  A  is  very  fond  of 
B — regards  her  as  a  superior  and  altogether  charming 
woman.  Although  cognisant  of  his  own  unworthi- 
ness,  he  has  about  decided  to  make  a  formal  proposal 
of  marriage  to  this  party  of  the  second  part — B,  we 
have  called  her.  Let  us  suppose  that  he  does  not  wish 
to  show  haste  in  making  his  offer  for  two  reasons, 
namely :  in  the  first  place  B  has  suffered  a  family  be 
reavement  and  it  might  not  be  regarded  seemly  and 
seasonable  to  speak  of  marriage  at  almost  the  moment 
when  it  is  discovered  that  B  is  in  need  of  financial  as 
sistance.  Might  not  B  suspect  that  his  action  is  in 
spired  by  a  sympathetic  impulse  or  a  sudden  pity, 
in  which  case  a  woman  of  proud  spirit  might — well — 
she  might  resent  an  offer  coming  at  such  a  time?  Do 
you  follow  me?" 

"Yes— I  think  I  do." 

"Very  well.     Now  then !    This  is  the  situation.    A 

is  very  desirous  of  making  the  proposition  to  B  but 

he  chooses  to  wait  for  the  proper  and  opportune  time 

and  then  to  make  it  in  such  a  manner  and  under  such 

[263] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

conditions  as  will  permit  B  to  speak  her  mind  freely 
and  have  the  knowledge  that  she  is  under  no  duress 
whatsoever.  But  suppose  that  in  the  interim,  while 
A  is  waiting,  with  more  or  less  impatience,  for  affairs 
to  shape  themselves  so  that  he  may  come  forward  with 
his  proposal,  B  approaches  him  and  requests  him  to 
do  what  she  is  pleased  to  regard  as  a  rather  important 
favour.  A  does  not  feel  that  what  he  does  in  her  be 
half  merits  any  large  degree  of  gratitude,  but  he  finds 
himself  in  a  delicate  position,  fearing  that  if  he  goes 
ahead  and  makes  a  proposal  of  marriage,  B  will  more 
than  ever  be  compelled  to  question  the  motives  of  his 
previous  conduct  and  feel  that  he  has  brought  undue 
influence  to  bear.  Now,  perhaps,  you  will  under 
stand  what  I  mean  when  I  say  I  am  almost  sorry  that 
I  consented  to  your  coming  into  the  office." 

"Mr.  Wellington,  I  think  you're  making  a  great 
deal  out  of  nothing.  I've  known  you  for  years. 
There's  nothing  you  could  do,  or  would  do,  that  would 
make  me  change  my  opinion  of  you." 

"If  I  were  to  make  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  you, 
and  if,  for  any  reason,  you  felt  that  your  future  hap 
piness  would  not  be  conduced  by  an  acceptance  of  it, 
would  you  feel  at  liberty  to  express  yourself  freely 
and  fully?" 

"I'm  sure  I  should.  I  wouldn't  marry  a  man  merely 
[264] 


STENOGRAPHIC    PROPOSAL 

because  he  had  been  my  father's  friend  and  had  helped 
me  to  employment." 

"You  would  have  to  entertain  for  him  a  regard  en 
tirely  separate  from  the  mere  feeling  of  gratitude." 

"Most  assuredly." 

'      "Very  well,  then — I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  take 
the  matter  under  advisement." 

"Well,  this  almost  takes  my  breath  away." 

"I  am  ten  or  twelve  years  older  than  you  are." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference.     I  mean " 

"I  do  not  urge  an  immediate  answer.  If  you  are 
in  doubt  as  to  what  you  had  better  do,  speak  to  your 
mother." 

"I'll  speak  to  her  to-night.  But  I  think— I'm 
pretty  sure,  it's  all  right." 

"I'll  call  this  evening  if  you  say  so." 

"I  wish  you  would." 

"I  am  glad  I  have  been  able  to  present  this  to  you 
in  such  a  way  as  to 

"Oh,  pshaw !  As  if  you  could  offend  me !  I've  al 
ways  liked  you  better  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
knew." 

"Really?" 

Humphries  could  "take"  no  more.  He  tiptoed  from 
the  room,  his  heart  at  zero. 

[265] 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

Mr.  Newe  and  Miss  Wise  were  seated  on  the  broad 
veranda  at  the  Rivulet  County  Club.  Other  persons 
were  seated  on  the  same  veranda,  viewing  their  neigh 
bours  apprehensively.  Still  others  were  standing  out 
in  the  sunshine,  bare-headed  and  bare-armed,  so  as  to 
hurry  the  tanning  process. 

The  billowy  green,  stretching  far  away  to  the  south, 
was  dotted  with  wiggly  white  figures  and  bright-red 
spots — distant  golf-players.  "Distant"  refers  to  their 
being  far  away  from  the  club-house  and  does  not  bear 
on  their  personal  characteristics. 

It  should  be  explained  that  Mr.  Newe  was  a 
stranger  and  a  barbarian. 

Miss  Wise :  "Do  you  see  that  girl  with  the  splendid 
colour?" 

Mr.  Newe:    "The  saddle-coloured  one?" 

She :    "Yes,  the  one  with  the  lovely  tan." 

He:     "What  about  her?" 

She :    "That's  Miss  Transem." 

He:    "Where  does  she  work?" 

She:  "Surely  you've  heard  of  the  Transems. 
[269] 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

Don't  you  remember  that  Julia  Transem,  the  oldest 
girl,  was  quite  a  belle  in  Washington  for  several  sea 
sons?  She  married  that  Allison  Alexander,  son  of 
Senator  Alexander,  and  he  drank  himself  to  death  or 
did  something." 

He :  "Who  is  the  intellectual  giant  talking  to  her 
there?" 

She:     "Don't  you  know  him?" 

He :  "I've  seen  his  picture  in  Life,  but  there  wasn't 
any  name  under  it." 

She:  "Why,  that's  Jack  Grubbley.  You  know 
he's  a  nephew  of  the  big  Grubbley  in  New  York — the 
one  that  every  one  knows  about.  What  was  his  name  ? 
Oh,  yes! — K.  Sturtevant  Grubbley.  They  were  very 
wealthy  and  one  night  his  wife  jumped  out  of  the  win 
dow,  wearing  all  her  diamonds." 

He:     "Whose  wife?     This  fellow's?" 

She :  "No,  no.  The  wife  of  K.  Sturtevant  Grub 
bley.  The  nephew  came  to  Chicago  about  that  time. 
That's  why  I  remember  it  so  well.  He  seems  to  be  in 
vited  everywhere." 

He:  "On  account  of  the  diamonds  or  simply  be 
cause  she  jumped  out  of  the  window?" 

She:     "Well,  you  know,  his  father  is  quite  promi 
nent  too.     Wasn't  he  the  one  who  was  black-balled 
by  the  Metropolitan  Club  in  New  York?" 
[270] 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

He:    "Ifcopeso." 

She :  "Did  you  see  the  girl  who  came  to  the  door 
way  just  now  and  looked  out?" 

He :     "The  red-headed  one  ?" 

She:  "Sh — h — h!  For  mercy's  sake,  if  any  one 
heard  you  say  that !  You  know  the  Cervelats  practi 
cally  run  this  club.  That  was  Miss  Effie  Cervelat." 

He :  "I  am  still  unimpressed.  What  is  her  partic 
ular  grip  on  publicity?" 

She:  "Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  the  Cervelat  fail 
ure?  You  know  her  father  was  all  mixed  up  in  that 
Interstate  Bank  case.  It  was  supposed  that  he  lost  a 
million  dollars,  but  they've  been  living  right  along  in 
the  same  style  ever  since." 

He :  "I'm  sorry  now  that  I  didn't  take  a  good  look 
at  her." 

She :  "Her  mother  and  old  Mrs.  Briggs  practically 
govern  the  exclusive  set  on  the  south  side.  Do  you  see 
the  stout  woman  over  there  by  the  post?  Yes,  the  one 
with  the  two  moles.  She's  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Briggs." 

He:  "That's  a  peculiar  thing.  I've  been  looking 
at  her  for  several  minutes,  and  I  never  suspected  her 
of  anything." 

She :  "Her  name  is  Solder.  She  was  a  Knobbs  be 
fore  she  was  married.  Perhaps  you've  heard  of  her 
[271] 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

cousin,  General  Knobbs.  He's  in  the  army  or  some 
thing." 

He :  "I'm  afraid  not.  It's  strange,  too.  It  doesn't 
seem  possible  that  a  military  commander  with  such  a 
cousin  could  escape  notoriety  for  any  length  of  time." 

She :  "Look !  Don't  turn  your  head,  but  merely 
glance  over  toward  the  corner.  Do  you  see  that  boy 
with  the  big  eyes?" 

He:    "Do  you  mean  the  caddy?" 

She :  "That  isn't  a  caddy — that's  Emerson  Stough- 
ton,  Jr.  Every  one  has  heard  of  Emerson  Stough- 
ton." 

He:     "Junior?" 

She:  "No,  his  father.  They  say  he  owns  nearly 
all  of  Dearborn  Street.  You  know  that  they  tell  the 
most  dreadful  stories  about  him." 

He :  "The  fact  that  he  owns  nearly  all  of  Dearborn 
Street  is  dreadful  enough!" 

She:     "You  know  Em  isn't  very  bright." 

He:     "By  'Em'  you  mean " 

She :     "Emerson,  Junior." 

He:  "You  surprise  me.  I've  been  watching  him 
light  that  cigarette  and  he  did  it  well.  He  has  been 
trained,  I  suppose — educated?" 

She :  "Yes ;  he  was  at  Harvard  for  four  years — in 
the  freshman  class,  I  believe." 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

He:  "Who  is  that  tall  one  he  just  spoke  to?  By 
George,  shell  do." 

She :  "Her  name  is  Elliott.  No  one  seems  to  know 
much  about  her." 

He:  "No  aunt  that  jumped  out  of  the  window; 
no  father  that  soaked  the  stockholders;  no  cousins  in 
the  army ;  no  sister  that  married  any  one — how  in  the 
world  did  she  ever  break  in  here?" 

She:  "Well,  she  was  brought  out  here  by  the 
Prudelys.  You've  heard  of  Mrs.  Prudely.  She  is  a 
daughter  of  W.  K.  Bowser,  the  great  dealer  in  fer 
tilisers." 

He:  "Oh,  well,  if  she  comes  with  the  daughter  of 
a  fertiliser,  I  suppose  that  gives  her  a  certain  stand- 
ing." 

She:  "They  say  that  Emerson  is  really  fond  of 
her,  and  I've  even  heard  that  they  were  engaged.  I 
think  it  would  be  terrible  for  him  to  go  and  marry 
her." 

He:     "Horrible!" 

She :    "No  one  knows  anything  about  her." 

He :  "I  suppose  she  must  be  after  his  money.  Can 
you  think  of  any  other  explanation?" 

She :  "But  you  don't  realise  the  situation.  No  one 
knows  anything  about  her,  and  she  might  get  hold  of 
poor  little  Emerson  and  make  him  do  almost  any 
thing." 

[273] 


THE     RELATIVES'     CLUB 

He:  "But  she  might  do  the  same  thing  even  if 
they  knew  all  about  her.  Besides,  if  she  gets  such  an 
influence  over  him  she  may  induce  him  to  wear  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  shirt.  Ah,  Emerson  has  a  rival.  Who 
is  the  other  young  man  talking  to  the  stately  Miss 
Elliott?" 

She :  "That  is  Mr.  Blodgett,  grandson  of  the  Blod- 
gett  that  made  so  much  money  in  the  grain  business." 

He:  "You  ought  to  change  the  name  of  this  club 
and  call  it  the  Relatives'  Club.  Do  all  the  others  out 
there,  going  the  rounds,  have  the  same  kind  of  notori 
ous  kin?" 

She:  "Don't  be  sarcastic.  I'm  simply  telling  so 
that  you  may  know  who  these  people  are." 

He :  "I  understand — so  I  may  be  on  my  guard.  I 
dare  say  if  these  people  around  here  knew  that  my 
uncle  Blaisdell  was  shot  twice  in  Quincy,  Illinois,  they 
might  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  me." 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

Patrolman  Curley  tapped  with  his  club  against  the 
pickets  and  the  gate-posts  as  he  strolled  past  the  long 
row  of  frame  buildings  in  Woolover  Street.  It  was 
a  misty,  moonlight  night,  and  Patrolman  Curley  had 
just  pulled  the  one  o'clock  box  at  the  corner  to  let  the 
station  know  that  he  was  aliVe. 

As  he  passed  the  wooden  houses,  with  the  roofs 
peaked  to  a  uniform  height  and  the  front  stoops  built 
all  alike,  he  reflected  that  there  was  little  need  of  a 
policeman  along  such  a  street.  No  burglars  would 
have  been  attracted  to  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  resi 
dents  were  too  tired  from  hard  work  to  remain  up  at 
night  and  be  disorderly. 

Patrolman  Curley  supposed  that  he  had  the  whole 
street  to  himself  until  he  glanced  ahead  and  saw  a  man 
leaning  against  the  fence.  As  he  came  nearer  the  man 
asked:  "This  ain't  Gillespie,  is  it?" 

"No,  sir,  this  is  Curley." 

"There  used  to  be  a  fellow  named  Gillespie  on  this 
beat." 

"He's  up  at  Maxwell  Street  now." 
[277] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

"Well,  maybe  you  can  tell  me.  Does — ah — does 
Mrs.  Fisher  still  live  here  at  852?" 

"How  should  I  know?  I  don't  keep  acouainted  with 
all  the  people  on  my  beat." 

"Will  you  go  up  to  the  door  with  me  till  I  find  out  ?" 

"Can't  you  find  out  for  yourself?  What's  the  mat 
ter — somebody  sick?" 

"No— I'll  tell  you.     She's  my  wife." 

"Well,  if  she's  your  wife  you  don't  need  me  to  in 
troduce  you,  do  you?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  officer,  I  don't  know  whether 
she'll  be  glad  to  see  rne  or  not.  I've  been  away  since 
a  year  ago  last  winter." 

"You'd  better  come  around  in  the  daytime,  my 
friend.  Here  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  is  no  time 
for  settlin'  old  family  troubles." 

"I'd  like  mighty  well  to  see  her  to-night,  if  she's 
in  there." 

"Why  didn't  you  come  around  early  in  the  even 
ing?" 

"I  didn't  get  in  town  till  to-night.  I've  been  look 
ing  for  a  friend  of  mine — couldn't  find  him." 

"Well,  what  good  can  I  do?" 

"You  just  come  up  with  me  to  let  her  know  it's  all 
right.  If  I  call  her  out  of  bed  she  may  come  to  the 
front  door  and  see  me  and  think  I've  come  back  to 
[278] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

make  trouble  for  her.  Then  again,  if  she's  still  mad  at 
me,  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  her  at  all.  I'll  go 
away  in  a  peaceable  manner.  I'm  a  law-abiding  citi 
zen,  and  I  always  have  been.  I  want  you  for  a  wit 
ness  to  what  happens  right  here  to-night." 

"What  was  your  trouble  about  anyway?  Another 
man?" 

"No,  sir;  I  never  thought  that  Maude  cared  for 
any  one  besides  me." 

"Maude!" 

"That's  her  name,  officer — Maude.  We'd  been  mar 
ried  ten  years  before  we  had  this  trouble,  and  if  I  told 
you  now  what  made  it,  you  wouldn't  hardly  believe 
me." 

"Well,  what  was  it?  Y'  can't  keep  me  up.  I'm 
here  till  four  o'clock." 

"We'd  never  had  any  fallin'  out,  you  know.  Why, 
we've  got  a  boy,  Bertrand,  that's  eight  years  old  now 
and  got  more  sense  than  both  of  us  put  together.  I 
don't  know  how  to  begin  to  tell  you.  You  know  these 
continuous  shows,  don't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  me  and  Maude  never  went  to  the  theatre 

much   after  we  moved  to  Chicago  because  Bertrand 

was  a  baby  and  we  couldn't  take  him  with  us.     After 

he  got  a  little  older,  though,  we  went  once  in  a  while 

[279] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

I  had  a  good  job  over  at  the  desk  factory,  but  I  never 
believed  in  wastin'  money  and  didn't  care  much  for 
shows  anyway.  Maude  liked  to  go  and  talked  a  good 
deal  about  every  show  we  went  to,  but,  as  I  say,  I  didn't 
feel  that  I  could  afford  to  pay  out  a  dollar  or  two 
every  week  for  foolishness.  But  when  these  continu 
ous  shows  started,  so  that  she  could  go  any  afternoon 
and  get  a  good  seat  for  thirty  cents,  she  got  crazy  on 
the  theatre.  She  could  take  Bertrand  along  and  hold 
him  on  her  lap,  and  of  course  there  wasn't  much  house 
work  to  do,  and  I  s'pose  she  must  have  went  to  those 
places  about  three  days  out  of  every  week.  I  wouldn't 
have  cared  for  that  so  much,  because  I  think  a  woman 
ought  to  enjoy  herself,  but  sLj  got  so  that  she  couldn't 
think  of  anything  or  talk  of  anything  but  variety 
shows.  She  was  singin'  darkey  songs  around  the 
house  all  the  time  and  tellin'  these  jokes  she'd  heard, 
and  she  got  so  she  knew  the  names  of  all  them  variety 
actors,  and  she  used  to  say  that  So-and  So  had  a  good 
act,  and  somebody  else  was  poor,  and  somebody  else 
ought  to  change  their  performance,  and  so  on." 

"So  that's  why  you  shook  her?"  asked  Patrolman 
Curley. 

"No — hold  on.  There's  another  side  to  the  story. 
Just  about  the  time  she  was  takin'  in  all  the  cheap 
shows  in  town  I  went  with  a  friend  of  mine  named  Dan 
[280] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

Jerrold  to  see  a  spiritual  exhibition  over  at  a  widow 
woman's  house  near  Twenty-sixth  Street.  It  was  the 
first  thing  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw,  and  I  thought  there 
was  something  to  it.  I  did,  honest.  I  talked  to  my 
father  through  this  medium  and  got  messages  from 
some  friends  of  mine,  and  I  s'pose  I  was  purty  well 
worked  up  about  it  for  a  few  weeks  and  couldn't  think 
of  much  else.  Well,  when  I  tried  to  talk  spiritualism 
to  Maude,  she  simply  had  a  fit.  She  just  hollered  and 
laughed  and  that  was  all.  It  made  me  so  mad,  I  said 
she'd  better  stop  gaddin'  around  to  variety  shows  and 
pay  attention  to  something  serious.  In  fact,  I  told  her 
in  so  many  words  that  she  mustn't  go  to  any  more 
theatres  with  Bertrand  unless  I  went  along.  She 
went,  just  the  same.  Then  we  had  it.  Before  long 
we  got  so  we  couldn't  speak  without  gettin'  into  a 
quarrel.  One  day  we  had  it  hot  and  heavy  and  I  just 
up  and  told  her  I  was  goin'  to  leave.  She  told  me  to 
get  out  and  never  come  back.  The  house  was  in  her 
name  already  and  I  turned  over  the  bank-book  to  her 
and  started  for  Birmingham.  I  knew  she  wouldn't 
starve,  for  if  she  got  hard  up  she  could  sell  the  place 
and  go  back  to  her  father's  folks.  They're  well  off." 
"And  you  haven't  heard  from  her  since?" 
"Not  direct  from  her — no.  Before  I  left  here  I 
went  to  Dan  Jerrold  and  told  him  to  write  me  once 
[281] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

in  a  while  and  let  me  know  how  she  was  gettin'  along. 
After  I  got  to  Birmingham  he  wrote  to  me  that  my 
brother  had  come  here  to  live  with  her,  and  that  she 
seemed  to  be  en  joy  in'  herself.  That  was  a  year  ago 
last  spring.  I  was  in  Alabama  all  summer,  but  in  the 
fall  I  went  to  Florida  and  worked  as  a  carpenter  all 
winter ;  pulled  up  and  went  over  to  New  Orleens  in  the 
spring,  and  got  back  to  Birmingham  here  about  a 
month  ago.  When  I  got  there  I  found  a  letter  for 
me  advertised  in  the  newspaper.  I  went  around  and 
got  it.  It  was  from  Dan  Jerrold.  He  said  my  wife 
had  been  askin'  about  me  and  seemed  to  be  worried. 
I'd  made  him  promise  not  to  tell  her  where  I  was,  and 
he  said  he  hadn't  told  her.  He  said  she'd  changed  a 
good  deal  and  didn't  go  to  shows  any  more  and  he  had 
a  notion  that  she'd  like  to  live  with  me  again.  Now 
the  funny  part  of  it  is  that  before  I  got  this  letter  I'd 
changed  my  opinion  about  this  spiritualism  business." 

"When  you're  dead,  you're  dead,"  observed  Patrol 
man  Curley,  judicially. 

"Yes,  I  guess  that's  right.  W'y,  I  saw  a  fellow  in 
Montgomery  one  night  go  into  a  cabinet  and  do  every 
blamed  thing  that  I  ever  saw  at  a  seance.  Then  he 
showed  just  how  he  worked  it,  and  I  could  see  that  I'd 
probably  been  fooled  by  these  people  here  at  the  widow 
woman's.  The  more  I  thought  about  it,  the  less  I 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

blamed  Maude  for  makin'  fun  of  me.  Then  when  I 
got  this  letter  from  Dan  it  kind  o'  decided  me  to  come 
back  to  Chicago.  I  finished  some  work  I  was  at  and 
collected  a  little  money  due  me,  and  come  along.  Our 
train  was  late.  We  got  in  here  about  eleven  o'clock 
and  I  went  over  to  the  place  where  Dan  Jerrold  used  to 
board.  I  thought  I'd  see  him  first  and  find  out  how 
things  stood.  Well,  he'd  moved  somewheres  and  they 
couldn't  tell  me  where.  I  went  to  two  or  three  places 
where  I  thought  he  might  be,  but  I  couldn't  get  track 
of  him,  so  I  thought  I'd  come  out  here.  After  I  got 
here,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  was  afraid  that 
mebbe  somebody  else  lived  in  the  house.  When  I  saw 
you  comin'  I  wondered  if  it  was  Gillespie,  so  I  waited." 

Patrolman  Curley  bored  the  gate-post  with  his  club 
and  nodded  his  head  in  quiet  laughter. 

"You're  a  wonder,"  he  said.  "What's  the  name 
again  ?" 

"Fisher — George  Fisher." 

"Come  on,  George." 

The  policeman  climbed  up  to  the  front  door  and 
pounded  with  his  club.  He  paused,  and  for  a  few 
moments  there  was  a  death-like  quiet.  George  Fisher, 
on  the  lower  step,  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  was  wiping 
his  brow  with  a  red  handkerchief. 

Once  more  the  club  rattled  noisily  against  the  panels, 
[283] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

and  as  Patrolman  Curley  stopped  to  listen,  a  timid 
voice  from  behind  the  door  asked :    "What  is  it  ?" 

"It's  her!"  whispered  George. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Fisher?"  asked  the  policeman. 

"Yes — yes,  sir.    Who  is  it?     What  do  you  want?" 

"It's  all  right.  Don't  be  afraid.  I'm  a  police 
officer.  Go  on ;  open  the  door." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  my  good  woman. 
It's  all  right — open  the  door." 

There  was  a  hesitating  turn  of  the  lock.  The  door 
squeaked  back  and  the  tousled  head  of  a  woman  in 
white  appeared  in  the  narrow  opening. 

"What  in  the  world  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"A  man  here  wants  to  see  you." 

"Who  is  he?    What  about?" 

"He  says  he's  your  husband." 

"George?" 

"It's  me,  Maude,"  said  George,  meekly. 

He  had  been  hidden  by  the  big  patrolman,  but  now 
he  moved  up  a  step. 

"Well,  of  all  things !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  peek 
ing  through  the  doorway. 

"Do  you  want  him  to  come  in?"  asked  the  police 
man. 

[284] 


GEORGE'S     RETURN 

"Well,  George  Fisher,  of  all  the  fool  tricks.  Comin' 
around  here  this  time  of  night  with  a  policeman !" 

"I  just  got  in  town,"  said  George,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"Well,  get  in  here,  for  mercy's  sake !  What  will  the 
neighbours  say,  hearin'  such  a  racket  at  this  time  of 
night?" 

The  door  opened,  with  Maude  discreetly  hiding  be 
hind  it. 

George  sidled  in  and  Patrolman  Curley  heard  him 
ask:  "Is  Bert  at  home?" 

Before  there  was  time  for  an  answer  the  door 
slammed. 

Patrolman  Curley  turned.  The  street  was  again 
quiet  in  the  misty  moonlight.  He  hit  the  gate-post  a 
noisy  thwack  as  he  passed  it. 

"George  and  Maude !    Glory  be  to  Ireland!" 


[285] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

A  conversation  between  Harry  and  Ethel. 

Ethel :    "Is  it  cold  outside?" 

Harry :    "Yes,  I  believe  it  is." 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it  is — horribly  cold.   You  can  tell  by 
the  frost  on  the  windows." 

"Do  you  have  any  trouble  in  keeping  your  house 
warm  ?" 

"I  don't  believe  so — hadn't  noticed." 

"Hadn't  noticed  what?" 

"What  was  it  you  asked  me?" 

"I  asked  you  if  that  was  a  new  cravat." 

"No,  it's  an  old  one.     That  isn't  what  you  asked 
me." 

"Yes,  it  is.    I  think  it's  perfectly  lovely." 

"Do  you?    I  don't  like  it  very  well  myself." 

"I  don't  see  why.    It's  awfully  becoming." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  really.     Now  don't  go  to  fixing  it,  or 
you'll  spoil  it.     It  was  just  right  before." 
[289] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

"All  right,  I'll  hold  still." 

"You  don't  like  white  ties,  do  you?" 

"No — except  on  somebody  else." 

"What's  your  objection  to  them?" 

"They  have  a  professional  look,  or  rather,  a  sug 
gestion  of  advertising  your  business.  When  I  see  a 
man  with  a  white  tie,  I  always  conclude  that  he  is  either 
a  minister  or  a  bartender." 

"But  Mr.  Hotchkiss  wears  a  white  tie,  and  he  isn't 
either." 

"Hotchkiss  isn't  anything  worth  speaking  of." 

"Oh,  Harry,  if  Sister  Laura  heard  you  say  that." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  care  very  much.  She  must  know 
by  this  time  that  I  have  no  use  for  him.  The  idea !  In 
this  day  and  age  of  the  world,  and  in  Chicago,  of  all 
places,  a  man — a  male  man — letting  his  hair  grow 
long,  putting  on  nose-glasses  and  a  white  tie,  and  start 
ing  out  to  lecture  before  afternoon  clubs  on — what  is 
it  he  lectures  on,  anyway?" 

"Oh,  the  True  Somethingness  of  Beauty,  I  guess  it 
is.  Laura  says  he's  terribly  bright.  She  says  there 
are  very  few  people  that  appreciate  him." 

"She's  dead  right  about  that.  I  know  of  twenty 
men  that  will  pay  him  any  price  to  come  over  to  the 
club  and  put  on  the  gloves.  But  the  women  seem  to 
think  he's  all  right." 

[290] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

"Oh,  some  of  them  do,  or  they  pretend  to.  Just 
at  this  minute  he  is  a  novelty,  a  fad." 

"Just  at  this  minute  and  every  other  minute  he  is — 
a  freak.  Why  do  women  get  stuck  on  that  kind  of  a 
fellow?" 

"They  don't— except  for  a  little  while.  They 
merely  take  him  up,  just  to  be  doing." 

"Just  to  be  done,  you  mean." 

"Do  you  know,  just  now  Laura  thinks  he  is  the 
cutest  thing !  But  that's  like  her.  She's  always  crazy 
about  something  or  other,  but  never  more  than  one 
thing  at  a  time.  If  it  isn't  mental  science,  it's  an  auto 
mobile  or  a  dog  or  French  lessons  or  something.  I 
think  it's  a  blessing  that  a  person  can't  be  crazy  on  too 
many  subjects  at  the  same  time,  don't  you?  But  I 
must  confess  that  Hotchkiss  is  about  the  worst  attack 
she's  had.  And  it  makes  her  so  mad  because  I  snub 
him." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  her  how  you  treat 
him?" 

"Well,  I  think  she  labours  under  the  delusion  that 
he  would  be  a  happy  addition  to  our  family.  She 
can't  marry  him,  because  she  is  already  tied  up  to  a 
commonplace,  every-day  broomstick  of  an  old  man, 
who  works  in  the  office  fourteen  hours  a  day  so  as  to 
keep  her  supplied  with  luxuries." 
[291] 


HARRY    AND     ETHEL 

"Such  as  lecturers." 

"Yes — lecturers,  antique  furniture,  and  Chihuahua 
dogs.  As  I  tell  you,  she  can't  marry  Mr.  Hotchkiss 
herself  while  Henry  cumbers  the  earth,  and  so  she 
has  generously  turned  him  over  to  me." 

"You're  not  serious,  are  you?" 

"I  am,  really." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  she  has  actually — sug 
gested — such — a — thing — as  your  taking  up  with  it 
-with  that?" 

"Well,  not  in  so  many  words,  but  she  has  sung  his 
praises  to  me  early  and  late,  and  is  simply  furious 
whenever  I  show  the  slightest  inclination  to  make  fun 
of  him.  She  has  assured  me  that  he  is  distinctly  su 
perior  to  any  other  man  of  my  acquaintance." 

"Especially  me,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  I  think  she  meant  you  in  particular.  She  says 
that  Mr.  Hotchkiss  lives  in  another  sphere — that  he 
has  lifted  himself  above  the  sordid  and  something-or- 
other  considerations  and  so-on  of  the  whole  thingum 
bob." 

"Indeed !  I'd  like  to  lift  him  still  farther.  Great 
grief!  Wouldn't  he  be  a  dandy  piece  of  bric-a-brac 
to  have  around  the  house  seven  days  in  the  week — al 
ways  with  a  white  necktie,  writing  lectures  on  pink 
paper !  Your  sister's  a  nice  woman,  but  I  don't  think 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

much  of  her  judgment  when  she  tries  to  pair  you  off 
with  that— that " 

"Oh,  go  ahead  and  say  it.  I've  heard  it  on  the  stage 
so  often  that  I'm  becoming  hardened  to  it." 

"Your  sister  has  it  in  for  me,  hasn't  she?" 

"Why,  Harry  !    I  don't  think  so." 

"Yes,  you  do  think  so,  too,  and  you  know  so,  too. 
She  objects  to  my  coming  around  to  see  you  so 
often." 

"But  you  don't  come  often." 

"There  are  seven  nights  in  the  week.  I  have  been 
here  six  out  of  the  seven." 

"Of  course,  you  do  come  often,  but  what  I  mean  is, 
that  you  don't  come  too  often." 

"Well,  it  isn't  too  often  for  me,  as  long  as  you 
don't  mind.  But  you  can  depend  upon  it,  when  she 
says  sarcastic  things  about  the  young  men  of  your  ac 
quaintance,  she  means  me." 

"Do  you  really  think  so  ?" 

"Of  course.  You  probably  haven't  heard  it  your 
self,  but  there  is  a  rumour  all  over  the  south  side  that  I 
am  head  over  heels  in  love  with  you,  and  that  if  you 
refuse  me  I  am  going  to  throw  myself  in  front  of  an 
Illinois  Central  train." 

"Why,  Harry !     How  you  go  on !" 

"Even  the  guv'nor — who  is  about  the  last  man  on 
[293] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

earth  to  catch  on  to  anything — he  heard  about  it  and 
asked  me  if  I  had  come  to  an  understanding." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him  that  I  might  be  able  to  report  in  a  day 
or  two." 

"How  in  the  world  do  such  stories  get  out?  You 
haven't  been  paying  such  marked  attention  to  me,  have 
you?" 

"Haven't  I?" 

"Have  you?" 

"If  I  haven't,  it's  because  I  didn't  know  how." 

"Why,  Harry!" 

"I  have  dogged  your  footsteps  for  two  months." 

"I  hadn't  noticed  it." 

"Everybody  else  has." 

"But  you  never  said  anything." 

"I  know  it,  but  I've  been  trying  different  kinds  of 
nerve-food  preparatory  to  saying  something." 

"You  seem  to  have  found  one  at  last." 

"No,  it  was  this  Hotchkiss  news  that  aroused  me  to 
a  sense  of  my  duty.  Up  to  this  time  I  have  been  re 
strained  by  a  sense  of  my  own  unworthiness,  but  when 
Hotchkiss  is  named  as  a  possible  rival — well,  that's 
different.  As  compared  with  Hotchkiss,  I  am  a  good 
thing.  Any  girl  that  is  threatened  with  Hotchkiss 
[294] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

ought  to  be  willing  to  marry  almost  any  one  in  order 
to  save  herself.  He  is  something  dire." 

"Harry!     How  dare  you  speak  of  such  a  thing?" 

"Who— what?    Hotchkiss?" 

"No,  before  that.    What  else  did  you  say?" 

"When?" 

"Why,  just  a  moment  ago." 

"I  don't  remember." 

"It  was  something  about  marrying." 

"Oh,  that's  what  you  want  to  talk  about,  is  it?" 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  simply  want  to  know  what  you 
mean  by  saying  that  I  would  marry  any  one.  You 
know  better  than  that." 

"No,  I  said  you  would  probably  be  willing  to  marry 
me,  if  only  to  escape  from  Hotchkiss." 

"That  isn't  what  you  said,  at  all." 

"That's  what  I  meant,  anyway.  I'll  tell  you,  you've 
either  got  to  take  me  or  put  me  out  of  my  misery.  I 
never  did  have  such  a  violent  attack  before." 

"Oho?  But  you  have  had  other  attacks?  Only 
this  one  is  more  violent,  is  that  it?" 

"Of  course,  I  had  a  good  many  girls  at  school." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  but  I  never  felt  this  way  before.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  wanted  to  lick  every  man  that  even 
looked  at  her.  I  don't  think  those  girls  ought  to  count 
[295] 


HARRY     AND     ETHEL 

at  all.  Of  course,  we  used  to  take  them  out  boat-riding 
and  hug  them — a  little." 

"A  little?" 

"But,  pshaw!  What's  the  use  of  talking  about 
them?  JFiftyou?" 

"JFiZZ  I — am  I  to  understand  that  this  is  a  pro 
posal?" 

"I  don't  see  what  else  you  can  make  out  of  it." 

"Well,  it's  the  strangest  proposal  I  ever  received." 

"I  thought  perhaps  you'd  like  to  have  me  vary  the 
form.  I  knew  you  were  tired  of  hearing  the  other 
kinds.  Now,  if  you  will  only  depart  from  your  usual 
custom  and  say  'Yes'  instead  of  'No,'  that  will  help 
matters  still  further." 

"Oh,  very  well.  I  want  to  be  just  as  original  as  you 
are." 

"Then  I  take  it  that  I  am  accepted." 

"You  haven't  any  of  the  symptoms  of  a  man  who 
has  just  been  accepted." 

"Pardon  me.    I  didn't  mean  to  keep  you  waiting." 

TABLEAU. 


[296] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

Buchanan  Caster,  or  "Buck"  (he  preferred  the  latter 
title),  was  man  of  all  work  for  a  family  on  the  bou 
levard. 

This  family  had  come  into  wealth,  and  was  making 
a  weak  effort  to  change  its  mode  of  life,  without  hav 
ing  any  heart  in  the  endeavour.  "Buck"  was  the  only 
man-servant  and  there  was  nothing  of  the  servant  in 
him.  He  was  an  independent  product  of  a  small  town 
in  Michigan,  and,  although  he  consented  to  curry  the 
Chamberlain  horses,  mow  the  Chamberlain  lawn,  and 
even  wear  a  tall  hat  while  driving  the  Chamberlain 
carriage,  he  did  so  with  the  full  mental  reservation  that 
he  was  "just  as  good"  as  any  of  the  Chamberlains, 
living  or  dead,  and  possibly  a  few  degrees  keener  on 
ordinary  topics. 

He  assumed  an  easy  familiarity  with  Jonas  Cham 
berlain,  the  head  of  the  family,  and  he  addressed 
Harry  Chamberlain,  the  son,  by  his  first  name.  He 
respected  Mrs.  Chamberlain  as  a  woman  of  sound 
judgment,  but  he  considered  it  his  privilege  to  dis- 
[299] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

agree  with  her  at  times  and  enter  into  argument.  He 
liked  the  two  Chamberlain  girls,  and  was  willing  to  do 
almost  any  kind  of  favour  for  them,  if  properly  ap 
proached. 

"Buck"  Caster  considered  that  he  was  the  one  level 
headed  and  responsible  person  around  the  Chamberlain 
premises.  He  was  willing  to  receive  suggestions  from 
the  Chamberlains,  but  he  much  preferred  that  they 
should  come  to  him  for  advice.  Usually  they  came. 

The  imported  menials — those  who  sit  in  wooden 
stiffness  on  the  carriage-boxes,  who  never  relax  their 
solemn  features  except  to  say,  "Yes,  mum,"  and  who 
always  see  between  themselves  and  their  employers  a 
vast  and  unbridgable  chasm — would  have  said  that 
"Buck"  was  a  total  failure  as  a  servant.  Probably  this 
was  true.  He  never  regarded  himself  as  a  servant. 
"Buck"  seemed  to  feel  that  he  was  general  manager 
for  the  Chamberlains. 

He  might  have  grown  grey  as  superintendent  of 
the  family  if  it  had  not  been  for  Gertrude. 

She  was  the  cook. 

From  the  day  of  her  arrival,  when  "Buck"  carried 
the  fragile  yellow  trunk  up  to  the  room  under  the 
roof,  a  change  came  over  the  household.  "Buck's" 
whole  conduct  was  altered.  Much  of  his  imperial  dig 
nity  deserted  him.  He  lost  that  air  of  bustling  im- 
[300] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

portance  which  made  him  the  wonder  of  the  small  boys 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

He  lacked  industry,  and  when  he  drove  the  carriage 
he  sat  humped  over  and  allowed  the  lines  to  hang  loose 
ly,  so  that  as  a  driver  he  was  a  pitiable  spectacle.  A 
hired  hand  going  to  town  with  a  load  of  oats  would 
have  made  just  as  smart  a  picture. 

The  truth  was,  and  it  could  not  be  concealed,  that 
"Buck"  was  in  love  with  Gertrude,  the  cook.  He  had 
been  smitten  severely  and  instantaneously. 

She  was  a  tall  and  cleanly  creature  of  twenty-eight, 
a  plodding  worker,  and  a  jewel  for  any  household.  At 
first  she  was  pleased  by  "Buck's"  kindly  attentions, 
but  when  he  began  to  show  a  desire  to  be  assistant  cook 
instead  of  general  manager;  when  he  lingered  around 
the  kitchen  at  unreasonable  hours  and  stared  at  her 
devouringly,  and  especially  when  he  began  to  send 
presents,  she  was  deeply  frightened. 

Gertrude  came  from  a  conservative  family  in  Will 
County,  and  she  did  not  choose  to  approach  matrimony 
in  a  gallop.  Accordingly  she  repulsed  "Buck"  one 
night  when  he  attempted  to  read  to  her  a  love-poem 
clipped  from  the  Fireside  Companion.  She  repulsed 
him,  and  she  ordered  him  from  the  kitchen. 

"Buck"  went  out  that  evening  in  company  with  an 
Irish  coachman  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  boulevard 
[301] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

and  drank  beer  in  order  to  extinguish  the  devouring 
flames  of  his  unrequited  love. 

Coming  home  at  10.30,  and  finding  Gertrude  still 
up,  he  denounced  her  in  a  voice  that  could  be  heard 
four  lots  away. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  patient  Chamberlains. 
Next  day  Jonas  Chamberlain  attempted  to  reprimand 
"Buck,"  who  resented  the  interference  with  his  in 
alienable  and  Michigan-fostered  rights,  and  went 
away,  leaving  the  family  to  shift  for  itself. 

Gertrude  was  melancholy  after  that. 

She  seemed  to  hold  herself  accountable  for  his  down 
fall  and  the  breaking  of  the  time-hallowed  tie. 

It  may  have  been  that  when  Gertrude  drove  "Buck" 
from  the  kitchen  she  did  not  intend  the  dismissal  to  be 
final.  Certainly  she  was  no  happier,  for  "Buck's"  suc 
cessor,  a  mild  German  youth,  could  go  to  the  kitchen 
a  dozen  times  without  so  much  as  seeing  her. 

Gertrude  became  more  melancholy,  more  pious,  more 
regretful.  She  was  a  regular  attendant  at  religious 
services.  The  family  supposed  that  she  attended  the 
Methodist  Church.  Not  so.  She  had  taken  up  with 
the  Salvation  Army. 

She  had  enlisted  and  was  into  the  fight,  consecrated 
and  red-striped,  before  the  family  had  a  chance  to  re 
monstrate.  She  gave  up  her  position,  made  a  fervent 
[302] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

little  speech  to  Mrs.  Chamberlain  and  then  went  away, 
burning  with  zeal. 

Mrs.  Chamberlain  had  been  a  friend  to  the  army, 
but  that  day,  as  she  drove  to  the  intelligence  office,  she 
said  several  spiteful  things  about  the  abduction  of 
cooks. 

The  Chamberlains  heard  nothing  from  either 
Buchanan  or  Gertrude,  although  many  weeks  passed 

by. 

There  came  a  Saturday  night  in  the  last  month  of 
the  political  campaign.  A  deafening  band,  followed 
by  a  straggle  of  shouters,  had  passed  by.  Two  corner 
orators,  drunken  and  incoherent,  were  shouting  and 
sputtering  at  each  other,  while  a  crowd  stood  around 
and  encouraged  them  by  good-natured  yelping. 
Above  all  the  noise  and  confusion  of  partisan  politics 
rose  the  swinging  notes  of  an  old-fashioned  hymn,  the 
thump  of  a  drum,  and  the  rattle  of  tambourines. 

Harry  Chamberlain  had  tired  of  the  political 
shouters.  He  strolled  off  into  the  side  street,  where 
the  swinging  flame  of  a  big  torch  lighted  the  circle  of 
spectators  drawn  around  a  group  of  Salvation  Army 
soldiers. 

The  singing  had  ceased,  and  a  woman,  mounted  on 
a  chair,  was  exhorting.  Her  high,  sonorous  voice  ran 
freely.  She  spoke  with  hysterical  fervour,  never  hesi- 
[303] 


"BUCK"     AND     GERTIE 

tating,  never  in  doubt  as  to  what  she  wished  to  say. 
Harry  Chamberlain  idled  along  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
until  he  could  see  the  face  half-shaded  by  the  poke- 
bonnet. 

It  was  Gertrude. 

Gertrude,  the  silent  woman  of  the  kitchen,  trans 
formed  by  religious  ecstasy  into  a  fiery  advocate.  He 
pressed  forward  and  a  second  surprise  awaited  him. 

There,  in  red  shirt,  with  huge  bass-drum  strapped 
to  him,  his  face  illumined  with  interest  in  the  speaker, 
rolling  "Amens,"  fondling  the  drumstick  with  hot  im 
patience,  was  Buchanan  Caster. 

Harry  moved  around  so  as  to  get  near  the  drummer. 
Presently  the  meeting  was  over. 

"Buck !"  said  Harry. 

"Hello,  Harry!"  exclaimed  the  drummer.  "Did 
you  hear  the  sergeant  speak?  Ain't  she  wonderful? 
Say,  I  went  into  the  meeting  one  night  and  saw  her 
there.  I  went  right  up  and  joined.  Then  she  knew 
I  meant  business.  We're  doin'  a  wonderful  work — 

wonderful !" 

"  Take  me  back  to  the  spot 
Where  I  first  saw  the  light." 

The  whole  squad  took  up  the  song. 
"Bang !"  went  the  drum.     Harry  ran  to  get  out  of 
the  way  of  the  marchers. 

[304] 


"BUCK"    AND     GERTIE 

He  saw  Gertrude  lead  on,  swinging  a  tambourine 
above  her  head,  and  behind  her  was  "Buck,"  leaning 
back  until  he  could  look  straight  up  at  the  stars,  and 
pounding  the  drum  until  it  quivered. 


[305] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

"Hello,  Billy." 

"Hello,  Tom." 

"You're  here,  are  you?     Been  waiting  long?" 

"I  just  this  minute  sat  down.     You're  on  the  dot." 

"Punctuality  is  one  of  my  two  virtues.    I  was  afraid 
you  wouldn't  get  the  note." 

"I  found  it  in  the  box  this  morning.     Where  is  this 
place  you're  going  to  take  me  ?" 

"It's  a  garden  away  out  north.     I've  got  an  open 
carriage  outside  there — beautiful  night  for  a  ride." 

"And  the  wife?" 

"She's  out  there — in  the  carriage." 

"Well,   let's   not  keep   her  waiting.     I'm   ready." 
(Starting.) 

"Say — hold    on;    you   needn't   throw    away    your 
cigar.     Sit  down.     She  can  wait  a  moment." 

"Well,  maybe  she  can,  but  can  I?     You  must  re 
member  I've  never  seen  the  wife." 

"You'll  get  a  good  look  at  her  presently.     Before 
we  go  out  there,  I  want  to  refresh  your  memory." 
[309] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

"Do  what?" 

"Refresh  your  memory.  You  know — we  were  to 
gether  last  evening." 

"Were  we?" 

"We  were — unless  you  want  me  to  pay  alimony. 
Don't  you  remember?  You  see,  yesterday  afternoon 
I  thought  possibly  you  were  in  town  already,  so  I 
came  around  to  the  hotel  about  half-past  five  and 
found  you  here.  You  were  delighted  to  see  me, 
of  course — roomed  together  at  college,  fraternity 
brothers,  shaved  with  the  same  razor  and  all  that. 
You  insisted  that  I  take  dinner  with  you." 

"Did  I?" 

"I  should  say  you  did.  You  insisted  and  kept  on  in 
sisting.  You  said  you  would  be  deeply  hurt  if  I  didn't 
cut  everything  else  and  dine  with  you.  I  tried  hard 
to  tear  myself  away.  I  told  you  that  my  wife  was 
waiting  for  me  at  home ;  that  her  sister  had  come  over 
to  spend  the  day,  and  that  if  I  didn't  show  up  for  din 
ner,  she  wouldn't  speak  to  me  for  a  week.  Then  you 
said  that  an  old  friend  had  certain  claims  that  even  a 
wife  would  have  to  recognise  and  give  way  to.  You 
said  that  I  could  dine  with  my  wife  every  other  day  in 
the  year,  but  this  was  the  one  day  that  I  would  have  to 
give  over  to  the  oldest  and  dearest  friend  of  my  boy 
hood  days." 

[310] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

"It  seems  that  I  was  quite  determined  to  have  you 
dine  with  me." 

"Billy,  you  were  simply  immovable.  You  wouldn't 
take  'No'  for  an  answer.  You  ordered  dinner  for  two 
while  I  was  trying  to  break  away.  You  said  that  you 
were  absolutely  certain  my  wife  would  not  mind  at  all, 
when  she  learned  all  the  facts  in  the  case." 

"I  am  to  remember  all  this,  am  I?" 

"You  are  to  remember  all  that  and  more.  I  an 
ticipate  a  cross-examination." 

That's  pleasant." 

"You  are  to  be  prepared  to  tell  what  we  had  for 
dinner,  repeat  portions  of  the  conversation,  mostly  in 
regard  to  the  dear  old  days  in  college,  and  to  testify 
that  I  drank  only  two  glasses  of  wine." 

"All  of  which  is  a  cheerful  prospect — but  I  can't 
say  that  I'm  surprised.  You  may  recall  that  I  had  to 
do  more  or  less  lying  for  you  when  we  roomed  to 
gether." 

"I  know,  Billy,  but  this  is  different.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  fool  the  faculty,  but  it  requires  an  artist 
to  convince  my  wife  that  there's  nothing  wrong  when 
I  fail  to  show  up  for  dinner  and  don't  get  in  until  two 
in  the  morning." 

"Was  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

[311] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

"Well,  that's  merely  a  rough  outline  of  it." 

"Where  were  you,  anyway  ?" 

"I  was  with  you." 

"Yes?" 

"Oh,  yes.  This  is  where  you  have  to  do  some  more 
refreshing.  You  will  recall  that  we  sat  at  the  table 
for  at  least  an  hour  talking  over  old  times  and  then 
we  went  up  to  your  room." 

"Why  did  we  go  up  there?" 

"I've  got  that  all  fixed.  We  went  up  there  to  look 
at  some  photographs — old  friends  of  ours,  college 
friends." 

"It  seems,  Tom,  that  the  college  theme  runs  all  the 
way  through  this  masterpiece." 

"That's  right.  We  sat  up  in  your  room  and  talked 
about  the  men  in  our  class,  the  ball-games  we  used  to 
win,  and  so  on — about  nearly  everything,  except  girls. 
We  didn't  talk  about  girls,  remember  that.  When  I 
was  in  school  I  was  rather  diffident  and  knew  only  two 
or  three  girls  in  town." 

"Great  Scott !" 

"Now  you've  got  a  general  idea  of  the  whole  thing. 
I  came  around  early,  and  you  compelled  me  to  stay  to 
dinner.  After  dinner  we  sat  at  the  table  and  talked, 
and  finally  you  suggested  that  we  go  up  to  your  room 
and  look  at  those  photographs." 
[312] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

"What  would  a  man  on  his  way  to  Yellowstone 
Park  be  doing  with  a  lot  of  old  photographs?" 

"That's  what  she  asked.  I  told  her  that  you  always 
carried  them  with  you — one  of  your  peculiarities.  We 
looked  at  these  photographs,  fell  into  a  rambling  con 
versation,  and  forgot  all  about  the  time  until  you  hap 
pened  to  look  at  your  watch  and  told  me  it  was  after 
one  o'clock.  I  was  horrified — ran  out  and  got  into  a 
cab  and  went  home." 

"And  she  believes  it,  does  she?" 

"She  will  if  you  corroborate  the  whole  thing.  Here, 
watch  me.  Do  you  remember  the  sign  of  distress  we 
used  to  have  in  the  f rat  ?  Well,  I  give  it  to  you  now." 

"By  George,  Tom,  you  are  a  wonder.  So  this  is  to 
be  my  introduction  to  your  wife,  is  it  ?  A  fine  reputa 
tion  you've  given  me !  Do  you  know  where  I  was  last 
evening?  Calling  on  an  uncle  on  the  west  side,  sitting 
on  the  veranda  and  talking  Christian  science." 

"You  merely  thought  you  were  out  there.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  you  were  down  here  with  me." 

"Talking  of  the  beloved  college  days." 

"Happy  college  days !" 

"From  half-past  five  in  the  afternoon  until  after 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning — in  the  house  all  the  time, 
and  the  thermometer  at  90." 

"I'll  admit  that  the  story  might  be  improved,  but 
[313] 


THE     SCAPEGOAT 

it  was  the  best  I  could  do  in  the  time  I  had.  Good  or 
bad,  it  has  been  spread  on  the  records,  and  it  must  be 
backed  up.  She  asked  me  if  it  wasn't  rather  warm 
sitting  in  a  hotel  bedroom  all  evening,  and  I  told  her 
that  you  had  a  room  on  the  tenth  floor  and  got  a  fine 
breeze." 

"But  there  are  only  seven  floors  in  this  hotel." 

"Oh,  well,  she  won't  stop  to  count  them." 

"Does  she  think  it  was  decent  of  me  to  compel  you 
to  dine  downtown  when  she  and  her  sister  were  waiting 
for  you  at  home  ?  In  other  words,  how  do  I  stand  with 
the  wife?" 

"She  may  be  a  trifle  sarcastic,  but  don't  you  mind 
that." 

"Oh,  certainly  not!  Don't  mind  it!  You  seem  to 
make  it  out  that  I'm  as  guilty  as  you  are.  You  in 
fernal  reprobate !  However,  I  suppose  I  must  face  it 
out.  By  the  way,  where  did  you  go  last  night?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Billy.  An  old  customer  came 
into  the  place  about  five  o'clock 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  care  to  tax  your  imagina 
tion  too  much — all  in  one  day.  We'll  go  out  and  meet 
the  wife — and  begin  to  lie." 


[314] 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 


WILLIE     CUR  TIN— A     MAN 

Willie  Curtin,  George  Tobey,  and  the  one  "Scotty" 
stood  at  the  front  of  Gust  Heinmiller's  place.  Hein 
miller's  was  a  squat  establishment  made  of  wood,  and 
those  who  passed  the  staring  doorway  caught  a  sour 
and  malty  odour  with  just  a  tang  of  keen  spirits. 
Heinmiller  depended  somewhat  upon  the  bucket  trade. 
His  saloon  backed  up  against  a  disordered  net  of  rail 
way-tracks,  where  the  trains  clanked  eternally. 

The  region  was  one  of  cinders  and  water-logged 
block  pavements,  sinking  back  dejectedly  into  the 
black  mud  from  which  our  unexpected  Chicago  had 
first  arisen.  Large  furls  of  smoke  unwrapped  them 
selves  lazily  from  the  near-by  planing-mill  and,  dilut 
ing  into  a  smudge,  softly  enveloped  the  whole  unlovely 
neighbourhood. 

The  two-story  houses  stood  in  crowded  lines.  Each 
had  a  perilous  front  stairway  for  the  use  of  the  super 
imposed  family.  There  was  no  hint  of  the  earth's 
green,  save  here  and  there  a  weedy  geranium  set  far 
out  on  a  sill,  as  if  to  coax  for  sunshine  and  fresh  air. 

Willie  Curtin  was  twenty,  and  a  full  hand  at  the 
[317] 


WILLIE     CUR  TIN— A     MAN 

mill.  George  Tobey  and  the  one  "Scotty"  had  been 
known  to  work,  but  never  in  a  cheerful  and  voluntary 
mood.  " Scotty  V  mother  kept  boarders.  Under  pre 
tence  of  buying  supplies  and  doing  the  heavy  work 
around  the  house,  he  found  time  to  stand  on  Hem- 
miller's  corner.  "Scotty"  was  acknowledged  captain 
of  the  young  men  who  came  to  Heinmiller's  each 
evening.  The  politicians  had  him  on  their  books  as  a 
useful  man,  and  the  police  hoped  to  know  him  more 
intimately.  "Scotty"  had  a  line  of  small  accomplish 
ments  which  earned  for  him  the  admiration  of  all  who 
stood  at  the  bar.  He  was  given  to  the  singing  of  sen 
timental  songs  and  could  do  very  neat  steps  in  the 
sand.  His  hat  was  worn  at  a  careless  angle,  and  in 
his  walk  there  was  a  defiant  little  swagger,  of  which 
he  was  quite  unconscious. 

While  the  three  stood  at  the  corner,  the  troops  of 
children  came  from  the  Von  Moltke  school.  This  was 
the  school  the  three  had  attended  until  they  learned 
to  read  the  nickel  library.  It  was  a  congress  of 
nations.  There  were  reddish  little  boys  with  all  the 
pugnacious  mischief  of  Ireland  squinting  from  their 
eyes.  There  were  docile  Swedish  tots  with  tow  braids, 
and  little  Italian  girls  of  such  olive  complexion  and 
great  dark  eyes  that  dirt  and  tatter  could  not  dismay 
their  beauty.  Then  there  were  plump  German  young 
[318] 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 

ones  who  skipped  instead  of  walking,  and  two  negro 
boys,  at  whom  "Scotty"  spat,  so  that  they  had  to 
jump  to  escape  disaster. 

The  older  girls  were  at  the  last  of  the  procession. 
They  came  locked  in  trios,  and  the  whole  street  was 
awakened  by  their  chatter. 

"Scotty"  moved  over  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
so  that  the  girls  would  have  to  pass  between  him  and 
the  swinging  doors  that  opened  into  Heinmiller's.  He 
tapped  his  hat  jauntily  with  a  forefinger,  put  his 
thumbs  into  his  vest  arm-holes,  and  waited.  The  girls 
saw  him  and  suddenly  ceased  talking.  They  ex 
changed  swift  glances  and  began  to  walk  more  rapidly. 

"Hello,  girls !"  he  said. 

They  tried  to  hurry  past.  He  stepped  in  and  seized 
a  girl  in  the  second  three.  It  was  Susie  Curtin. 

"Come  here,  Susie,  I  want  to  tell  you  something," 
he  said,  tightening  his  lips  to  keep  back  the  laughter. 

"You  let  go  of  me,"  she  cried,  pulling  and  backing 
away  from  him,  but  he  had  gripped  her  forearm  and 
she  tugged  in  vain. 

"No — on  the  level,  I  want  to  tell  you  something," 
he  said,  and  then  he  gave  a  long  tantalising  "Ah-h-h !" 
as  she  struck  at  him  awkwardly  and  girl-fashion,  while 
he  dodged  the  blow  by  leaning  backward. 

"Let  go  of  me !"  she  repeated.  Her  voice  broke  and 
[319] 


WILLIE     CURTIN— A     MAN 

her  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears  of  mortification. 
"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

She  broke  away  and  ran  headlong  among  her  com 
panions.  They  closed  about  her  and  hurried  on, 
whispering  their  consolation  as  they  cast  frightened 
glances  back  at  the  corner  where  "Scotty"  had  halted 
after  making  a  playful  start  as  if  to  pursue  them. 

Willie  Curtin  had  stood  still  while  this  was  happen 
ing  between  "Scotty"  and  his  sister.  His  hands  were 
clinched  in  his  trousers'  pockets  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  did  not  have  the  strength  to  withdraw  them. 

He  stood  motionless,  with  a  heat  rising  into  his  head. 
The  buildings  across  the  street  toppled  and  swung. 
His  heart  beat  rapidly. 

"Scotty"  gave  a  peculiar  upward  jerk  to  his  head 
and  smiled  from  one  side  of  his  mouth. 

"I  like  to  kid  the  girls,"  he  said,  and  shouldered 
through  the  swinging  doors  into  Heinmiller's  place. 
George  Tobey  followed  him. 

Willie  leaned  against  the  corner  and  tried  to  whistle, 
so  as  to  reassure  himself  that  he  had  not  been  disturbed 
by  the  episode.  He  said  to  himself  that  Susie  was  only 
a  child  and  "Scotty"  had  meant  it  in  fun.  But  the 
lie  contradicted  itself,  for  he  knew  that  he  was  sick 
with  self-contempt. 

But  what  could  he  have  done  ?  Suppose  he  had  in- 
[320] 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 

terfered.  "Scotty"  would  have  whipped  him.  In  this 
miserable  reflection  he  found  small  consolation.  He 
had  read  paper-covered  books  and  he  had  seen  the 
weekly  melodrama  at  the  Bijou,  and  he  knew  that 
any  man  who  calls  himself  a  man  must  not  stand  silent, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  while  his  sister  is  being 
bullied  and  insulted.  He  remembered  that  he  had 
tried  to  grin  when  "Scotty"  laid  hold  of  Susie  and 
pulled  her  away  from  the  other  girls.  Perhaps 
"Scotty"  selected  her  just  to  prove  that  he  rated 
Willie  as  a  coward.  Willie  tapped  the  corner  of 
the  building  with  his  closed  fist  and  thought  hard 
thoughts. 

He  did  not  speak  to  Susie  of  what  had  happened  at 
the  corner.  She  had  not  appealed  to  him  for  protec 
tion  when  "Scotty"  held  her  by  the  arm.  She  did  not 
rebuke  him  when  he  came  home  to  supper.  She  looked 
at  him  in  a  furtive  and  shamefaced  way  across  the 
table  as  if  to  acknowledge  that  both  of  them  lived  in 
fear  and  dread  of  the  only  "Scotty."  It  was  her  si 
lence  and  her  manner  of  not  expecting  him  to  play  the 
man  that  wore  upon  Willie.  He  knew  that  he  would 
despise  himself  until  he  had  fought  "Scotty." 

If  Willie  had  a  definite  resolution,  he  did  not  express 
it — not  even  to  himself.  When  he  began  to  work  in 
Larry  Bowen's  gymnasium,  he  did  not  know  that  he 
[321] 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 

was  preparing  to  fight  "Scotty."  He  was  learning  to 
box  because  every  young  fellow  should  know  how  to 
take  care  of  himself. 

Larry  Bowen  was  a  retired  professional  who  gave 
evening  lessons  in  a  loft  which  he  called  his  "academy." 
Larry  had  lost  many  of  his  teeth  in  prairie  battles,  and 
one  ear,  after  repeated  poundings,  had  taken  on  a  sort 
of  muffin-shape.  Larry  had  fallen  short  of  cham 
pionship  honours,  but  no  one  less  than  a  champion  had 
beaten  him  down  when  he  was  in  his  prime.  He  and 
his  advanced  pupils  received  Willie  into  their  grim 
brotherhood  and  taught  him  that  pain  and  bloodshed 
are  the  mere  zest  of  manhood.  He  fought  them  dog 
gedly  and  then  sat  among  them,  thoughtfully  taking 
instruction.  For  a  half-hour  at  a  time  he  would  send 
the  punching-bag  tap-tap-tap  against  the  hard 
boards.  He  felt  of  himself  and  found  new  muscles 
lining  themselves. 

One  evening  he  caught  the  great  Larry  unawares 
and  shook  him  to  the  heels  with  a  straight  left-hander. 
Larry  crouched  and  came  back  to  fight — not  to  in 
struct.  They  mixed  it — counter  and  cross,  give  and 
take,  infighting,  tearing  loose,  breathing  heavily  like 
maddened  animals — each  swinging  desperately  for  the 
knock-out.  When  they  finished,  in  a  struggling  em 
brace,  Willie  felt  the  warm  blood  in  his  mouth,  and 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 

the  great  Larry  regarded  his  pupil  with  but  one  ef 
fective  eye. 

"You're  comin'  on  a  lot,  kid,"  said  Larry,  caressing 
his  nose  with  a  gloved  hand. 

This  would  be  scant  praise  from  any  one  but  Larry. 
Willie  knew  what  it  meant.  He  walked  homeward, 
stretching  himself  within  his  sweater  and  tapping  his 
biceps.  The  light  from  Heinmiller's  place  fell  across 
the  sidewalk.  From  within  came  the  assertive  voice 
of  the  only  "Scotty,"  who  was  talking  politics.  No 
doubt  "Scotty"  had  forgotten  all  about  it — for  it  had 
been  but  a  trivial  incident.  His  career  had  been 
crowded  with  many  such  pleasantries.  When  Willie 
walked  in,  "Scotty"  gave  him  a  sidewise  nod,  such  as 
a  great  personage  bestows  upon  a  satellite  entering 
his  presence,  and  he  continued  his  dissertation  on  men 
and  affairs,  as  viewed  by  the  precinct-worker.  Willie 
stood  back,  somewhat  at  a  loss  for  a  definite  policy, 
and  yet  quietly  confident  that  opportunity  is  seldom 
denied  the  willing  soul. 

A  fight,  to  have  any  ceremonial  dignity,  must  fol 
low  logically  upon  a  quarrel.  Therefore,  when 
"Scotty"  declared  that  a  certain  "Jimmy,"  of  ward 
fame,  was  a  prince  and  the  very  essence  of  gentility, 
Willie  had  to  say  that  "Jimmy"  was  a  cheap  thief 
and  a  lowly  counterfeit. 

[323] 


WILLIE     CURTI N— A     MAN 

Thereupon  "Scotty"  unhesitatingly  used  violent 
language  and  the  provocation  existed.  Willie  hit 
"Scotty"  twice  before  "Scotty"  knew  that  he  was  to  be 
hit  at  all.  Heinmiller,  the  man  of  peace,  shouted  from 
behind  the  bar,  counselling  arbitration.  "Scotty" 
aroused  himself  and  bore  down  upon  the  boy.  He 
ran  straight  into  a  rigid  left  arm,  but  he  caught  hold 
of  Willie's  coat  and  tried  to  pull  the  battle  down  to 
the  floor — a  tactic  of  the  bar-room  fighter.  Willie 
gave  a  twist  and  wriggled  out  of  the  coat.  He  ran  for 
a  shelter  behind  the  pool-table.  "Scotty"  followed, 
and  the  boy  suddenly  turned,  meeting  the  big  fellow 
right  and  left.  "Scotty"  fell  backward  and  Willie 
pounced  upon  him. 

When  the  patrolman  rtished  in  and  compelled  Willie 
to  relax  his  hold  upon  the  throat  of  the  only  "Scotty," 
his  judicial  mind  did  not  classify  the  battle  as  one 
tinged  with  the  sweetness  of  chivalry  or  touched  by 
the  glamour  of  romance.  It  was  the  inevitable,  the 
nightly  "saloon  scrap." 

The  Curtin  family  was  deeply  humiliated  and  hurt 
in  reputation.  John  Curtin  had  to  go  out  at  night  to 
find  a  bondsman.  Willie  was  released  from  the  station 
at  midnight.  His  mother  and  Susie  were  waiting  for 
him — indignant,  horrified. 

"To  think  that  anny  son  of  mine'd  turn  out  to  be 
[324] 


WILLIE     CURTIN— A     MAN 

a  saloon  rowdy,"  said  Mrs.  Curtin.  "Locked  up — the 
same  as  a  thief.  I'll  be  ashamed  to  meet  Father  Car 
ney." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Willie. 

"It  serves  you  right  for  always  running  around  with 
those  toughs  and  trying  to  be  a  regular  prize-fighter," 
added  Susie. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Willie. 


[325] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 


OPENING    OF    NAVIGATION 

Two  lake-faring  men  went  hard  at  it  with  scrubs  to 
clean  the  wooden  effigy  of  Ceres,  perched  above  the 
wheel-house  of  the  Dudley  Brown. 

Ceres  sat  in  a  very  stiff  and  conventional  attitude, 
gazing  directly  up  stream.  She  had  a  black  spot 
painted  in  each  eye,  and  the  effect  was  to  give  her  the 
appearance  of  staring  with  fascinated  interest. 

Could  Ceres  have  seen  from  out  those  wooden  eyes 
she  would  have  learned  that  the  big  warehouses  were 
dozing  in  warm  sunshine.  Along  the  docks  which 
skirted  them  ran  a  most  uneasy  movement  of  men. 
Painters,  in  white  suits,  were  suspended,  like  spiders, 
along  the  sides  of  the  gaunt  iron  propellers  and  were 
covering  the  stains  and  rust  of  a  winter's  harbouring. 
Decks  were  being  scrubbed  down  and  rigging  set  taut 
and  serviceable.  In  fact,  Ceres  would  have  known  that 
the  season  was  arousing  itself. 

Ceres  wore  a  loose  garment  of  fiery  red.    Her  arms 

and  face  were  white  and  rather  scaly  from  repeated 

applications    of   white-lead.      The    sheaf   which   she 

carried  in  her  left  arm  was  done  in  brilliant  yellow,  and 

[329] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

altogether  she  was  a  startling  figure  as  she  sat  trium 
phant  above  the  wheel-house,  where  the  crowds  passing 
on  the  bridge  might  look  up  and  admire. 

Ceres  held  this  place  of  distinction  because  the  Dud 
ley  Brown  was  a  grain-carrying  steamer  plying  be 
tween  Chicago  and  Buffalo,  and  Ceres  is  the  goddess 
of  corn  and  tillage.  The  mariner  could  not  pay  a 
prettier  compliment  to  the  husbandman.  Such  cour 
tesy  was  all  the  more  graceful  because  one  does  not 
find  many  allusions  to  mythology  along  the  Chicago 
river. 

The  two  men  who  had  cl'mbed  to  the  tin  roof  of  the 
wheel-house  to  cleanse  the  goddess  were  sailors — not  the 
Jack  Tars  of  youthful  imagination,  but  sailors  who 
had  been  reduced  to  deck-hands  through  the  changes  in 
navigation  and  the  gradual  supremacy  of  steam. 

Dan  Griswold  had  been  a  real  Captain  Marryat 
sailor  once  upon  a  time,  and  had  all  the  tattoo  marks 
to  prove  it.  He  could  splice  and  knot  and  reef,  and 
he  knew  the  names  of  all  the  sails  and  sheets,  but  this 
knowledge  counted  for  nothing  on  the  Dudley  Brown. 
In  the  opinion  of  Dan  Griswold  it  was  not  a  vessel  at 
all — just  a  huge  grain-bin  crowded  along  by  a  screw. 

The  sailor  having  lost  his  station,  the  pride  and  the 
clothes  had  gone  with  it.  These  two  men  scrubbing  at 
the  goddess  were  in  blue  flannel  shirts  and  a  cheap 
[330] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

quality  of  factory-made,  farmer  clothes.  Dan  Gris- 
wold  wore  a  crumpled  cap,  and  the  younger  man  had  a 
derby  hat,  bleached  by  the  sun. 

The  younger  man's  name  was  Larry  Pearson. 

"I  think  she's  clean,  Larry,"  said  Dan,  passing  the 
bucket  and  brush  back  to  his  companion  and  lowering 
himself,  with  a  few  grunts  and  sighs,  from  the  roof 
of  the  wheel-house. 

"She  looks  all  right,"  said  Larry. 

"We've  got  to  keep  her  looking  all  right,"  remarked 
Dan,  as  he  picked  up  his  bucket  and  walked  aft.  "She's 
the  only  woman  we'll  h^ve  aboard — and  it's  a  good 
thing  she  can't  hear  what's  bein'  said." 

Three  men  were  perched  along  the  rail  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  boat  warming  their  backs.  One  of  them, 
Tony  Baldwin,  was  reading  aloud  from  a  newspaper. 

He  stopped  reading  as  Dan  came  up  and  said, 
"Here,  Dan,  you  want  to  hear  this." 

"What  is  it?" 

"They  say  the  ice  is  out  o'  the  straits,  and  they  can 
get  through  now  without  a  scratch.  As  soon  as  they 
can  get  insurance  everything'll  start.  It's  goin'  to  be 
the  earliest  season  we've  had  for  years." 

"I'll  be  glad  o'  that,"  growled  Larry,  who  had 
followed  along.  "It  can't  open  any  too  soon  for  me." 

"If  I  was  on  a  real  boat  I  wouldn't  care,  either," 
[331] 


OPENING    OF    NAVIGATION 

said  Dan.  "I'm  forgettin'  what  a  sail  looks  like,  and  I 
never  did  like  the  smell  o'  rain-water.  That's  all  that 
thing  is" — with  a  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  lake — 
"a  big  puddle  o'  rain-water." 

"I  know  why  Dan  ain't  so  anxious  to  get  away  this 
spring,"  said  Tony,  with  a  wink  at  the  others.  "He's 
stuck  on  the  missus.  Why  don't  you  marry  her,  Dan, 
and  settle  down?" 

"This  ain't  no  time  or  place  to  talk  about  a  lady," 
said  Dan.  "Leastways,  not  for  low  roustabouts  to  talk 
about  her." 

"Who's  a  low  roustabout?"  asked  Tony,  as  he 
straightened  his  legs  and  came  down  to  the  deck. 
"Who's  a  low  roustabout?" 

"Well,  who  is  a  low  roustabout  if  you  ain't?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  make  you  swaller  that." 

"Come  and  do  it." 

They  closed  in,  pawing  at  each  other.  They  grap 
pled  and  did  a  slow,  heaving  waltz  together,  and  then 
went  to  the  deck  with  Dan  on  top. 

They  were  holding  on,  tugging  and  making  inar 
ticulate  noises  when  the  mate  came.  He  was  a  very 
young  man  with  a  straw-coloured  moustache. 

"Here !  Let  go !  Get  up  and  out  of  here,"  he  com 
manded,  prodding  the  man  underneath  with  his  foot. 

Dan  untangled  himself  and  came  to  his  feet.  He 
[332] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

was  breathing  heavily  and  one  eye  had  a  bruised  and 
watery  appearance.  Tony  had  been  defeated  by  the 
rules  of  battle,  but  he  bore  no  marks  and  was  anxious 
to  resume  the  fight. 

"Go  on — get  off  the  boat,  both  of  you,"  said  the 
mate.  "I  don't  want  you  around,"  and  he  gave  his 
opinion  of  the  two  in  language  which  may  be  imagined 
but  cannot  be  quoted. 

Dan  jumped  to  the  dock  and  went  along  the  plank- 
driveway  between  the  cold-storage  warehouse  and  a 
freight-depot.  One  whole  side  of  his  face  burned  as  if 
it  had  been  chafed  with  a  piece  of  sail-cloth.  He  won 
dered  if  the  eye  would  show  any  colour.  If  so,  he  did 
not  want  to  go  to  Mrs.  Gunderson's,  for  he  had  told 
Mrs.  Gunderson  that  he  was  not  a  fighting  man.  She 
would  not  have  fighting  or  drinking  men  in  the  house, 
and  that  is  why  the  discriminating  captains  and  mates 
had  come  to  board  with  her. 

Dan  had  lived  at  the  house  for  two  winters,  and  dur 
ing  the  second  winter,  because  he  could  not  be  idle 
and  because  Mrs.  Gunderson  came  to  have  a  growing 
confidence  in  him,  he  was  a  sort  of  business  manager 
for  the  establishment.  He  brought  in  reliable  cus 
tomers,  kept  track  of  the  accounts,  did  much  of  the 
purchasing,  and  advised  Mrs.  Gunderson  in  all  emer 
gencies.  For  the  first  time  in  his,  wandering  career 
[333] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

he  had  found  a  taste  of  real  domestic  life,  for  one 
can  never  know  domestic  life  unless  one  feels  a  pro 
prietary  interest. 

Dan  had  outlived  the  sailors'  period  of  romance. 
He  had  tired  of  the  life  on  the  grain  steamers,  but  he 
had  never  dreamed  that  he  could  make  a  living  or  be 
useful  in  any  way  except  on  board  a  vessel.  Here  he 
was,  preparing  to  begin  another  season  of  drudgery 
on  the  lakes,  but  he  hated  the  prospect  as  he  had 
never  hated  it  before,  and  he  began  to  realise  that 
there  was  more  of  dignity  and  comfort  in  managing 
a  three-decked  boarding-house  than  in  being  ordered 
about  as  a  common  sailor.  It  was  out  of  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  daily  reflections  that  he  had  resented 
Tony's  playful  remark. 

Mrs.  Gunderson  met  him  as  he  entered  the  door 
way. 

"There  you  are,  Mr.  Griswold!"  she  exclaimed. 
"I've  been  lookin'  for  you.  Mr.  Cleary  wants  his 
bill.  Lord  bless  us,  man !  What's  the  matter  with 
your  eye?" 

It  may  be  remarked  that  although  Mrs.  Gunder- 
son's  husband  (lost  with  a  lumber  schooner)  had  been 
a  Norwegian,  she  was  distinctly  Scotch  and  Irish. 

"I  got  into  trouble  with  a  fellow  on  the  boat.     It's 
all  right.     I'll  make  out  Cleary's  bill." 
[334] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

He  went  into  his  own  room  to  work  at  the  "books," 
and  presently  Mrs.  Gunderson  came  in  with  a  piece 
of  steak  for  his  eye,  which  he  refused  with  gentle 
scorn. 

"Mr.  Cleary  says  the  straits  are  open,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Gunderson,  as  she  admired  Dan's  work  with  the 
figures. 

"Yes,  they'll  be  gettin'  away  most  any  day  now." 

"Goodness  only  knows  what  we'll  do  when  you're 
gone,  Mr.  Griswold.  I've  come  to  depend  on  you  so 
much — with  twenty  men  in  the  house." 

"I  hate  to  go  myself,  Mrs.  Gunderson." 

"Why  can't  you  stay  ?  I  can  pay  you  a  little  some 
thing,  or  annyway  your  board — which  you've  been 
wantin'  to  pay.  I  need  a  man — I  do  that." 

"So  the  boys  on  the  boat  say." 

"They  do?" 

"Yes;  I  had  my  fight  with  a  fellow  that  asked  me 
why  didn't  I  marry  you." 

"Bless  you,  the  two  girls  have  been  askin'  that  for 
a  month." 

"Cleary  owes  you  eleven  fifty,"  said  Dan,  hand 
ing  the  bill  to  her.  As  she  received  it,  she  gave  him 
a  glance  which  he  seemed  to  understand. 

It  was  three  days  later  that  the  mate  of  the  Dud 
ley  Brown  met  Dan  on  the  State  Street  bridge.  Dan 
[335] 


OPENING     OF     NAVIGATION 

was  smoking  a  cigar  and  surveying  the  river  with  the 
air  of  one  who  owned  the  stream  and  all  abutting 
property. 

"Look  here,  Dan,  why  haven't  you  been  around?" 
he  demanded.  "I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  navigation 
opens  by  Saturday." 

"Navigation  can  open  and  be  damned,"  replied 
Dan.  "I've  quit  the  water." 


[336] 


NO     CLARENCE 


NO     CLARENCE 

After  the  bubbling  crowd  from  the  1.40  train  had 
spouted  through  the  main  exit  and  gone  its  various 
ways,  "Connie"  found  himself  saying:  "Cab,  sir? 
Hi!  cab,  sir?  Here  you  are!"  to  no  one  in  particular 
except  a  fatigued  officer  of  the  law. 

The  station  dozed  again.  Usually  it  was  dozing 
or  else  roaring,  with  the  alternations  running  on 
schedule  time.  Now  it  had  simmered  down  for  fifteen 
minutes  of  comparative  quiet. 

"Connie"  saw  no  prospect  of  immediate  employ 
ment.  It  is  believed  that  he  stared  after  the  last 
stragglers  and  remarked  to  the  policeman  that  they 
were  "mugs."  A  "mug"  is  a  person  who  does  not 
ride  in  a  hansom  cab. 

Connie's  brown  derby  hat  was  rather  too  high 
and  cocoa-nut  shaped  to  be  accepted  as  the  vogue,  and 
his  clothes  had  certain  slashing  curves  and  a  tight 
ness  about  the  legs  to  prove  that  the  wearer  had  been 
for  many  years  among  the  tall  fronts  and  lamp 
posts.  The  four-in-hand  cravat  was  a  burning  red 
and  rested  against  a  checked  bosom  of  a  kind  which, 
[339] 


NO     CLARENCE 

through  some  mysterious  adaptability,  is  always  cho 
sen  by  men  who  handle  horses. 

If  you  ever  come  to  know  "Connie"  well  you  will 
discover  his  good  points.  A  single  encounter  might 
serve  to  emphasise  his  mercenary  qualities  and  leave 
his  virtues  unsummoned  from  within.  He  has  been 
known  to  charge  an  unprotected  woman  three  dollars 
for  a  single  haul  from  the  Rock  Island  station  to  the 
Auditorium,  taking  her  by  way  of  Desplaines  Street 
and  Chicago  Avenue. 

It  is  certain  that  his  judgment  of  distances  is  not 
always  accurate,  as,  for  instance,  his  estimate  that 
it  is  two  miles  from  the  Northwestern  station  to  Rush 
Street,  by  the  short  cut,  whereas  the  city  map  makes 
it  five  blocks. 

A  man  may  have  a  grasp  for  money  and  still  be 
tender-hearted,  as  witness  the  well-known  philan 
thropists. 

"Connie"  would  lean  against  a  wheel  and  almost 
sniffle  when  "Big  Burton,"  a  coupe  driver,  sung  his 
"sister  songs"  in  a  suppressed  tenor,  with  many  effec 
tive  dwells. 

He  was  over-ready  to  fight  for  a  friend,  and  he  was 
good  to  his  horse.  These  two  points  of  merit  always 
counted  heavily  in  his  favour. 

The  policeman  had  lounged  away  toward  a  corner 
[340] 


NO     CLARENCE 

fruit-stand,  and  "Connie"  had  settled  back  against 
license  number  42871  for  a  wait  and  a  whistle,  when 
the  girl  from  the  country  came  to  the  doorway  and 
shaded  her  eyes  for  a  look  up  the  sunny  street. 

"Cab,  lady?"  asked  "Connie." 

She  turned  and  gave  him  a  candid  smile. 

"No,  I  don't  want  no  hack.  I'm  waitin'  to  meet  a 
gentleman  friend." 

"Has  he  broke  a  date?" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  stood  just  outside  the  door 
way  and  watched  the  street  expectantly,  once  or  twice 
leaning  back  to  see  the  top  of  the  fourteen-story 
building  only  a  block  away. 

"Connie"  studied  her,  for  lack  of  other  entertain 
ment.  He  inspected  her  from  the  dusty  button  shoes 
up  to  the  one-winged  hat.  She  had  a  boyish,  sun- 
coloured  face,  and  her  hands  were  large  and  strong. 
The  blue  dress,  black  lace  trimmings,  plaid  ribbon, 
and  a  suspended  Japanese  fan  made  such  a  conflict 
of  colours  that  even  "Connie"  felt  disturbed  and 
shook  his  head  slowly,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  pulled 
downward  and  two  small  wrinkles  of  merriment 
showing  between  his  eyebrows. 

"The  party  ain't  showed  up  yet,  eh?"  he  asked. 

"No,  he  ain't,  an'  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of 
it." 

[341] 


NO     CLARENCE 

"Who  wuz  it  you  was  expectin',  the  real  boy?" 

"It's  the  gentleman  I'm  engaged  to — Mr.  Blivins." 

"Come  again." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Give  me  that  name  again.  What's  the  party's 
name?" 

"Blivins — Clarence  Blivins.  I  ain't  seen  him  for 
about  a  month,  but  I  wrote  to  him  yesterday  an'  told 
him  I  was  comin'." 

"He  lives  here  in  Chicago,  does  he?" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  lives  here  and  he's  well  off,  too.  I 
got  acquainted  with  him  when  they  had  the  rally 
over  at  Ransom.  He  had  a  stand  there." 

"What  kind  of  a  stand?" 

"What  kind  d'you  s'pose?  A  place  where  they 
sell  lemonade  an'  peanuts  an'  pop  an'  so  on." 

"Oh !" 

"I  got  acquainted  with  him  there  an'  he  proposed 
to  me,  an'  I'm  up  here  now  to  marry  him — but  I  don't 
s'pose  I  need  to  rattle  on  to  you  about  it." 

"Sure,  lady,  go  ahead,"  said  "Connie,"  in  a  con 
fiding  tone,  intended  to  encourage  her.  "If  you've 
got  his  address  I  may  be  able  to  locate  him  for  you. 
Where  does  he  live?" 

"I've  got  it  on  a  card  somewheres.  He  wrote  it 
down  for  me." 

[342] 


NO     CLARENCE 

She  went  into  a  low  pocket  of  the  blue  dress  and 
brought  out  a  very  small  purse,  fastening  with  a 
snap,  from  which  she  took  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper. 

"Connie"  unfolded  the  paper  and  read,  written  in 
pencil : 


CLARENCE  BLIVINS, 

Lincoln  Park, 

Chicago. 


"He  give  you  this,  did  he?"  asked  "Connie." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Lincoln  Park !  Talk  about  stringin' !  Where  did 
you  meet  this  guy?" 

"Over  at  Ransom,  when  they  had  the  rally." 

"Where's  Ransom?" 

"Do  you  know  where  Kankakee  is?" 

"Well,  I've  heard  of  it." 

"Well,  it  ain't  on  the  same  road  as  Kankakee,  but 
it's  about — I  don't  know — twenty-three  or  twenty- 
four  miles,  I  should  judge 

"All  right,  we'll  let  it  go  at  that.  You  say  you  met 
him  at  a  rally?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  stopped  at  his  stand  to  buy  some  pop 
corn  an'  we  got  to  talkin',  an'  then  he  asked  me  to 
take  a  ride  in  the  swing  with  him.  We  got  to  talkin', 
[343] 


NO     CLARENCE 

an'  he  took  me  right  from  the  start  becuz  he  wuz  so 
pleasant  spoken." 

"I'll  bet  he  was  a  nice  man.  What  did  he  tell 
you?" 

"Well,  I  told  him  I'd  always  wanted  to  git  to 
Chicago  becuz  I'd  only  been  here  once  when  they  had 
an  excursion  to  the  World's  Fair,  an'  then  I  didn't 
get  to  see  half,  so  he  says,  'I  live  in  Chicago  an'  I'm 
purty  well  fixed  an'  I  want  to  git  married.'  He  told 
me  he  owned  a  store  here  an'  could  give  me  a  home 
an'  I  wouldn't  have  to  work  the  way  I  did  in  the 
country.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  ask  no  other  woman 
to  look  after  my  house,  so  he  said  I  could  do  part  of 
the  work  if  I  felt  like  it,  but  he  expected  to  have  a  good 
hired  girl  to  help  me.  He  said  we  could  settle  that 
after  I  got  here.  W«  had  quite  a  long  talk  about  one 
thing  an'  another,  makin'  arrangements.  He  give 
me  his  name  an'  where  he  lived,  an'  said  when  I  wuz 
ready  to  come  to  just  up  an'  let  him  know.  I  wrote 
to  him  a  couple  o'  days  ago  that  I  was  comin',  but 
I  guess  he  didn't  git  the  letter.  Mebbe  he's  off  some- 
wheres  with  his  stand." 

"I  wouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised.  What  are  you 
goin'  to  do — -wait  for  him?" 

"I  don't  hardly  know  what  I'd  better  do.     I  don't 
s'pose  I  could  find  the  place  alone." 
[344] 


NO     CLARENCE 

"I  think  I  can  find  it  for  you.  You  get  in  the  cab 
an'  I'll  drive  you  over  that  way." 

"How  much  would  it  come  to?" 

"Oh,  I'll  make  it  reasonable.  How  much  money 
you  got  with  you?" 

"I've  got  four  dollars  an'  a  quarter  here.  I  spent 
some  on  the  train." 

"You'd  better  let  me  carry  it  for  you.  It  ain't 
safe  for  a  lady  to  be  carryin'  money  around  these 
depots." 

She  gave  him  the  purse.  He  looked  at  it  and  then 
at  her,  in  sheer  astonishment,  but  he  stiffened  his  face 
to  keep  from  laughing. 

"You  are  certainly  all  right,"  he  said.  "How  did 
you  fix  it  to  get  away  from  home?" 

"I  told  'em  I  wuz  goin'  to  ride  in  with  Bashford 
Simmons  to  see  the  MofFett  girls,  but  I  kept  on  an' 
rode  into  town." 

"They  didn't  know  anything  about  Clarence, 
eh?" 

"No,  I  ain't  told  any  one.     He  told  me  not  to." 

"Well,  well!     Climb  in." 

"Connie"  took  hold  of  her  arm  and   assisted  her 

into  the  hansom.    Then  he  swung  up  to  his  little  seat 

behind.     As  the  horse  came  around  and  started  away 

at   a   pounding   jog-trot,   "Connie"   shook   his   head 

[345] 


NO     CLARENCE 

slowly  and  said  to  himself,  "Well,  I've  heard  of  this 
kind,  but  I  wouldn't  'a'  believed  it." 

He  looked  down  through  the  hole  at  the  dusty  hat, 
which  was  in  a  constant  rotary  motion,  for  she  was 
trying  to  look  at  both  sides  of  the  street  at  the  same 
time. 

Presently  the  cab  turned  from  State  Street  west 
into  Harrison  Street,  following  a  path  familiar  to 
both  horse  and  driver.  It  was  then  "Connie"  began 
to  realise  that  even  if  he  gave  the  prospective  Mrs. 
Blivins  four  dollars'  worth  of  honest  cab-riding  he 
would  have  to  set  her  down  somewhere  at  last.  He 
knew  of  many  places  into  which  she  would  go  as  un 
hesitatingly  as  she  had  gone  into  the  swing  with  the 
missing  Clarence. 

For  the  purposes  of  a  story,  it  might  be  advisable 
to  say  that  "a  struggle  was  taking  place"  in  "Con 
nie's"  mind.  "Struggle"  is  hardly  the  word,  for  he 
was  chuckling  most  of  the  time  and  dimly  wondering 
why  the  peanut-man  had  chosen  such  an  unusual  and 
profitless  lie. 

Occasionally  he  looked  down  at  her  and  sighed  with 
wonderment.  It  would  make  a  good  story  to  tell  to 
"Big  Burton." 

"Yes,  and  it's  lucky  'Big  Burton'  wuzn't  pulled 
up  there,  instead  of  me,"  he  said  to  himself. 
[346] 


NO     CLARENCE 

He  drove  on  without  stopping  and  headed  east 
toward  State  Street. 

"She's  too  easy,"  he  said.  "If  she  put  up  a  fly 
front  I  might — but  her!  Back  to  the  tall  grass!" 

Another  turn  and  they  were  headed  for  the  station. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  wonderingly,  as 
"Connie"  came  down  from  the  high  seat. 

"Say,  Ethel,  you  take  this  money  an'  hide  it  in 
side  your  cloze  somewheres.  I'll  show  you  a  nice  place 
to  set  until  the  train  comes,  an'  if  you  move,  that  big 
copper'll  run  you  in." 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  asked,  staring  at  him, 
pop-eyed. 

"Sh — h — h !  You've  got  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
of  gettin'  out  of  town  alive,  and  I'm  your  friend.  I'll 
show  you  where  to  get  your  ticket  an'  where  your 
train  backs  in,  and  I  want  you  to  be  the  first  one 
aboard.  Don't  buy  nothin'  of  the  train  butcher  an' 
don't  speak  to  no  brakesmen." 

"Don't  you  s'pose  Mr.  Blivins " 

"Lady,  I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  I  must.  Your  friend, 
Mr.  Blivins,  sold  Lincoln  Park  and  moved  out  to  the 
four-mile  crib  a  week  ago,  an'  besides,  he's  married." 

"Yes,  but  looky  here " 

"That'll  do  for  you.     Not  another  word." 

And  they  went  in  to  buy  the  return  ticket. 
[347] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

An  "L"  train  had  come  to  a  grinding  stop  at  the 
second  station  of  the  inbound  trip.  The  big  man 
came  along  the  aisle  until  he  saw  a  seat  with  only 
one  man  in  it.  His  Chicago  training  asserted  itself. 
He  hurriedly  pre-empted  the  place.  The  man  al 
ready  in  the  seat  moved  over  toward  the  window.  The 
big  man  said  "Thanks,"  secretively,  and  leaned  back 
to  waste  seventeen  minutes  of  this  precious  life. 

In  the  seat  opposite,  and  facing  them,  were  two 
women  and  one  baby. 

The  younger  woman  held  the  baby,  and  the  young 
woman's  mother  superintended.  Once  she  said:  "I 
think  you'd  better  keep  your  hand  on  his  back,  Ida. 
The  car  jolts  so." 

Soon  after  she  advised  strongly  against  allowing 
"him"  to  chew  the  newspaper,  advancing  a  theory 
that  printer's  ink  is  not  a  wholesome  food  for  infants. 

Ida,  who  was  all  eyes  for  "him,"  followed  direc 
tions  placidly,  and  three  times  she  addressed  him  as 
"precious  rascal,"  which  doubtful  compliment  was 
utterly  ignored. 

[351] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

The  baby  was  a  round-faced,  pinkish  creature  with 
big,  blue  eyes.  As  babies  go,  doubtless  he  was  a  very 
fine  specimen.  When  he  opened  his  mouth  to  crow, 
he  showed  two  unimportant  teeth.  His  gown  was  a 
scramble  of  lace,  and  the  bonnet  was  fastened  under 
his  plump  chin  with  an  enormous  bow. 

He  pawed  the  air  with  two  milk-white  fists  until 
his  mother  turned  him  around  squarely.  Then  he  sat 
very  still  and  studied  the  two  men  on  the  other  seat. 

The  big  man  with  the  black  moustache  wore  a  blue 
suit,  a  broad  straw  hat,  and  a  striped  neglige  shirt  with 
a  loose  cravat  falling  down  the  front  of  it. 

His  neighbour  was  a  smaller  and  rather  pale  man, 
with  a  short  patch  of  side-whiskers  in  front  of  each 
ear.  His  coat  was  of  black  silk,  the  cravat  was  of 
white  lawn,  and  the  rim  of  his  straw  hat  was  much  nar 
rower  than  that  of  his  neighbour's. 

The  baby  stared  at  one  and  then  at  the  other.  The 
pale  man  stood  the  scrutiny  for  a  time  and  then  began 
to  smile.  The  baby  smiled  in  return,  and  the  pale 
man  winked  and  shook  his  head  in  a  threatening  way, 
causing  the  infant  to  become  serious  again  and  turn 
to  the  big  man. 

The  latter  pointed  his  finger  and,  using  his  thumb 
as  a  trigger,  discharged  a  loud  cluck,  which  so  de 
lighted  the  child  that  it  waved  its  arms  and  gurgled. 
[352] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

Once  more  he  clucked  and  this  time  the  demonstra 
tion  of  delight  was  so  earnest  that  the  mother  looked 
out  of  the  window  in  pleased  embarrassment  and  the 
grandmother  smiled  and  said:  "Oh,  you  bad  boy, 
you're  not  afraid  of  any  one." 

The  big  man  put  his  forefinger  against  the  baby's 
ribs  and  said:  "Kitchey,  kitchey,  kitchey,  kitchey, 
kitchey," 

Leaning  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  the  pale  man 
watched  this  performance  with  unconcealed  delight, 
especially  when  the  baby  laughed  so  hard  that  it  came 
very  near  rolling  off  its  mother's  lap. 

"Boy  or  girl?"  he  asked. 

"Boy,  and  a  bad  boy,  too;  now,  aren't  you?"  the 
mother  replied,  straightening  the  bonnet,  which  had 
been  pulled  down  over  one  eye  during  the  frolic.  She 
was  blushing  proudly. 

"No,  he  ain't  a  bad  boy ;  no,  siree,"  said  the  big 
man.  "He's  a  little  corker;  that's  what  he  is.  Ain't 
you  a  little  corker?"  He  advanced  his  forefinger 
toward  the  ribs,  and  the  "corker"  went  into  a  kicking 
fit  over  the  mere  prospect  of  being  tickled  again. 

"What's  his  name?"  asked  the  pale  man. 

"Tell  the  gentleman  your  name,"  said  the  grand 
mother,  shaking  him  by  the  arm.  But  he  could  see 
[353] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

no  one  except  the  big  man,  from  whom  he  was  momen 
tarily  expecting  another  attack. 

"His  name's  Walter,  but  all  he  can  say  now  is 
'Wah' ;  you  see,  he's  only  a  little  over  a  year  old. 
How  old  is  he,  Ida?" 

"Thirteen  months  and  ten  days,"  was  the  prompt 
reply. 

"You  seem  to  have  made  a  deep  impression  on  him," 
said  the  pale  man  to  his  neighbour. 

"Would  he  come  to  me,  do  you  s'pose?"  asked  the 
big  man  of  the  grandmother. 

"Bless  you,  he  isn't  afraid  of  any  one." 

"Let's  see?     Come,  Walter,  come  to  me;  come  on." 

While  entreating,  the  big  man  held  out  his  hands, 
and  the  baby,  with  his  round  face  puckered  into  a 
laugh,  reached  for  the  big  man. 

"Just  look  at  that,"  said  the  baby's  mother,  with  a 
little  gasp. 

The  big  man  received  Walter  and  danced  him  in 
the  air.  He  allowed  the  baby  to  claw  his  moustache, 
and  when  he  said  "Ouch,"  the  pale  man  laughed  aloud, 
and  the  whole  car,  which  was  watching  the  perform 
ance,  smiled. 

"Oh,  you  bad  boy,"  said  the  grandmother,  recov 
ering  Walter  and  straightening  the  bonnet  once  more. 
"Ida,  the  next  stop  is  Thirty-first." 
[354] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

That  was  where  they  alighted.  The  baby  looked 
back  over  the  mother's  shoulder  and  laughed  at  the 
two  men,  who  grinned  after  him  like  two  foolish  boys. 

Two  eager  men  with  newspapers  fought  their  way 
into  the  vacant  seat,  and  the  friends  of  the  baby  found 
themselves  depending  upon  each  other  for  entertain 
ment. 

"Nice  baby?"  said  the  pale  man. 

"A  dandy.     I  like  'em  about  that  age." 

"I  have  one  of  about  that  size — a  little  girl.  She'll 
be  fifteen  months  old  on  the  17th.  She's  just  begin 
ning  to  toddle  around  and  we  have  to  watch  her  all  the 
time." 

"That's  right." 

"The  other  day  my  wife  left  her  alone  for  a  little 
while,  and  when  she  came  back  there  was  that  little 
tike  clear  up  on  the  sideboard  trying  to  get  the  cork 
out  of  the  vinegar-bottle." 

"You  don't  say  so?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  she  had  pushed  a  chair  over  to  the  side 
board  and  climbed  up." 

"I've  got  a  boy  that's  goin'  to  be  a  terror,"  said  the 
big  man.  "He's  only  nine  months  old,  but  he's  big  for 
his  age,  and  I  guess  he  knows  more  than  most  children 
do  at  a  year  old.  The  other  morning  about  six  o'clock 
I  was  woke  up  by  something  poundin'  me,  and  what 
[355] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

do  you  think?  That  little  cuss  had  squirmed  around 
in  bed  and  had  both  of  his  feet  in  my  face  kicking 
away  to  beat  the  cars." 

"Well,  well!" 

"I  woke  up  my  wife  and  let  her  see  it.  He  knew 
what  he  was  doin',  all  right,  for  when  he  saw  me 
lookin'  at  him,  he  commenced  to  laugh.  I'll  tell  you 
they  begin  to  learn  things  early  enough." 

"They  do,  for  a  fact.  Now,  my  second  girl  isn't 
five  years  old,  and,  of  course,  we've  never  sent  her  to 
school,  but  she  knows  her  letters  and  can  read  some; 
just  picked  it  up,  you  know.  My  wife  and  I  thought 
we  wouldn't  attempt  any  instruction  until  she  was 
six,  but  she  simply  went  ahead  and  learned  anyway." 

"I'll  bet  you !  That's  the  way  they  do.  But  say, 
you  ought  to  see  that  oldest  boy  of  mine.  He's  twelve 
years  old  and  his  sister  is  goin'  on  nine.  They're 
down  in  the  country  now  visitin'  their  grandmother, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you,  pardner,  they  think  she's  the 
greatest  woman  in  the  world.  My  wife's  folks  have 
a  fine  place,  with  an  orchard  and  a  crick  and  horses 
to  ride.  Why,  when  they  get  down  there  they  just 
own  the  farm.  Turn  it  upside  down." 

"I  dare  say  they  do,"  said  the  pale  man,  smiling 
and  nodding  his  head  as  if  he  remembered  something 
of  the  kind  himself. 

[356] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

"Yes,  you  see  their  grandmother  humours  them 
and  gives  them  all  they  want  to  eat,  and  fusses  over 
them.  She  thinks  more  of  them  children  than  she  does 
of  me,  but  that's  all  right.  My  wife  was  the  only 
child.  And  their  grandfather!  He'd  bring  a  team 
in  out  of  the  field  any  time  if  the  kids  wanted  to  ride." 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  let  my  children  get  out  into  the 
country  more  than  they  do.  But  I  send  them  to  the 
park  every  pleasant  afternoon,  and,  of  course,  they 
enjoy  that." 

"I'll  bet  they  do,  but  it's  better,  of  course,  if  they 
get  clear  out  into  the  country,  where  they  can  peel 
their  shoes  and  stockings  and  raise — Cain.  I  wish 
your  children  could  get  out  there  with  mine.  They'd 
have  great  times  together." 

"They  would,  indeed;  I  know  mine  would  enjoy  it. 
Is  your  little  boy  in  good  health?" 

"Is  he?  He's  a  buster.  Never  cries  except  when 
the  colic  gets  in  its  work.  One  day  about  a  month 
ago  the  nurse  set  him  in  a  chair  and  he  fell  off  right 
on  his  head.  My  wife  come  screamin',  thinkin',  of 
course,  that  he  was  croaked,  sure  enough.  That  boy 
simply  rolled  over  and  started  in  playin'  with  his  rattle 
again — never  even  whimpered." 

"This  seems  to  be  Congress  Street,"  said  the  pale 
man,  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  arising. 
[357] 


WHEN  FATHER  MEETS  FATHER 

"Yes,  this  is  where  I  get  off,  too." 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  met  you,"  and  he  held 
out  his  hand. 

"The  same  to  you,"  said  the  big  man,  giving  a 
hearty  grasp. 

"I'll  give  you  my  card.     Have  you  one?" 

"I  think  I  have,  somewheres." 

The  pale  man  opened  a  leather  case,  and  the  other 
searched  in  his  upper  vest-pockets. 

They  exchanged  cards  while  crowding  to  the  plat 
form  with  the  others.  Outside,  after  they  had  sepa 
rated,  each  looked  at  his  card.  One  read : 


REV.  McLEOD  HATLEY, 
Essex  Presbyterian  Church. 
Residence,  4690  Calumet  Avenue. 


The  other: 


THE  SMILAX  BUFFET. 
"  Billy  "  Alexander,  Proprietor, 

82  Clark  Street. 

Imported  and  Domestic  Wines, 

Liquors  and  Cigars.      Remember  the 

Number. 
The  Home  of  the  "Looloo"  Cocktail. 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 


REC'D  l-D 

JAN  24  t959 


LD 


u 

,-95 


SSTun* 


REC'D  LD 

APR  12 


